The Gloompugger Blight
by Allarice
Summary: She could not let him die for her. If she did, she would not be able to live in the skewed world that would remain, always wondering why and how and if, somehow, they'd all gotten it terribly wrong in the future. Luna&Tom. Time Travel.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

_England, 1944_

"It doesn't matter," Riddle said icily, his chiseled features a mask of determination. "Release her."

The man's wand dug deeper into her skin, drawing a hiss of pain from her in spite of herself. "Drop your wand, and I'll let her go. Don't, and she dies."

"How do I know you'll keep your word?"

"You don't."

_Well, _Luna thought resignedly, _this is it after all_.

The click of a wand clattering to the ground made her blood freeze. Her world tipped upside down. Since she was little, he had always been the bogeyman, the horror parents used to frighten their children. Why would he do something to save her? He was Lord Voldemort, who cared about no one, and would never do something so sacrificial, least of all for _her_.

Even worse was the rush of sudden fear as an uncountable number of wands rose to aim at his heart.

She could not let him die for her. She didn't know why – perhaps it was because if she did, she would not be able to live in the skewed world that would remain, always wondering _why _and _how _and if, somehow, they'd all gotten it terribly wrong in the future.

A tidal wave of all-consuming, debilitating panic bloomed in her chest.

_Yes,_ _maybe they had._


	2. Chapter 1

"Then it's settled, Mr. Scamander, Miss Lovegood. Hogwarts is honored to have you as guest lecturers for our Care of Magical Creatures class. May I escort you to the entrance?"

Rolf beamed his agreement at Headmistress McGonagall. He was, to Luna's mind, a most wonderful young man, with honey-brown locks that fell into sparkling eyes of a matching color and an ever ready smile. It had been a mere year since they'd first met at a naturalist convention; since then, they had spontaneously coincided on so many various expeditions that she was quite sure Fate had destined them to be together. But at the moment, not even he could bring Luna out of the strange nostalgia flooding her from being in the circular red room again. Then again, Gloompuggers were terribly notorious for creating such feeling in addition to being exceedingly rare. What were the chances that she found one in the Headmistress's office, of all places?

"Luna, aren't you coming?" Rolf called. His warm baritone sounded quite distant, even though he was only a few feet away outside the room, and Luna had to strain to hear him.

"I'd rather stay here for a bit." If she had used that tone during her school years, people would have goggled, wide-eyed and staring just as Luna herself was apt to do constantly. Loony Lovegood, sounding sensible?

Nowadays, however, no one spared an extra glance at her occasionally matter of fact – well, if not matter of fact, at least sensible – speech. Everyone knew of the reason why it was there, even her ex-classmates who used to cheer on the Nargles. It was widely understood that not a single person had escaped the war unscathed. And Luna was no exception.

She attributed her differences to her near three-years-past stay in Malfoy Manor, the battles, the killing, and quite probably, if she was in an inordinately clearheaded and courageous mood, the way her father had _betrayed _Harry and died for it, becoming yet another cold, empty statistic under "deceased." It was quite impossible for anyone's idealism to survive entirely intact.

"Are you sure?" Rolf shocked her out of her thoughts. Rationality pushed at her to leave, to get away before she had a meltdown, but Imagination prompted her to stay, and Imagination won out in the end. She couldn't go. Not when there was such an obvious pulling from the Gloompugger. She wished she could see it, but she was confident that she could locate the critter by her senses alone.

"Quite."

She didn't know if Rolf responded or not. She was lost in the odd sensation that made her legs move, as of their own volition, past the Headmistress's desk, covered in gadgets and gizmos, and towards the old cabinet that stood as a relic to the memory of Albus Dumbledore, possibly, and quite probably, the greatest Headmaster of Hogwarts there had ever been. A fond sigh escaped her full, pink lips at the thought of the venerated man. She missed him. They'd been closer than most others knew, for who else would have helped Luna recover her lost things from those silly pixies? Though she'd never said a word to anyone else, she _had _been quite lonely until Harry took her under his wing in the D.A., and Professor Dumbledore had been a confidant of sorts.

Something, possibly the invisible creature hovering just out of her reach, made her run her palm over the smooth surface of the well maintained piece of furniture. As she did, her eyes caught on an age-wrinkled black book, propped up by a tarnished copper stand. Soft, quality leather on the outer edges of the volume gave way to a charred mess of cinders and singed edges on the inside. Something nasty had burnt its way straight through the center in a perfect circle. Perhaps it was the work of a vengeful Heliopath?

It was equally interesting that the missing chunk of the book lined up directly with her reflection in the glass. If she looked hard, it appeared as if her pale, washed out face was framed in a dark portrait. Whereas the strong coloring of the cover should have looked terrible against the tangled locks of her silver-blonde hair and nearly snow-white complexion, it instead placed emphasis on her piercing blue eyes and lush, pink lips. If Luna had cared about her appearance, she would have been pleased.

As she didn't care at all, she was far more focused on the book itself. Her hand was moving again, for some reason, and it was compelled to yank the cabinet open and touch the yellowing pages. How delicate they seemed! How unusual, too; perhaps it was an antique? But the best word by far to describe it was mysterious, she decided. And a little too compelling.

Enthralling, almost.

Her slender fingers inched out, millimeter by millimeter, until they brushed against the stiff paper with the faintest touch. She nearly cried out when she finally made contact with the paper. A sunburst of sorts was emanating from where the book had glued itself to her skin. The sparkling golden light had nothing to do with the habits of a Gloompugger. Maybe Gloompuggers were the next to be added to her Creatures-That-Don't-Exist-After-All list. She hoped not; the sheet was getting quite long.

Abruptly, as if the book objected to this notion, it _yanked._ Hard. It wrenched her hand towards the back of the cabinet at an incredible speed. Luna close her eyes and braced herself, preparing to feel a shattering collision and the white-hot pain of every bone in her hand splintering into pieces. A ready scream was on the tip of her tongue. Not that she enjoyed screaming, but Father had told her that the more a person screamed, the more Crumple-Horned Snorkacks they were likely to attract, so she'd had plenty of practice.

She waited. Time really did slow down when one knew what was about to happen, she mused absently, her limb still outstretched and straining to remain attached to her shoulder. She could even, amazingly, count aloud.

"One leaping Moon Frog, two leaping Moon Frogs, three leaping Moon Frogs, four leaping Moon Frogs, five leaping Moon Frogs, six leaping Moon Frogs, seven leaping Moon Frogs..."

"What are youdoing with my journal?"

Well, _that _wasn't her voice.

The speaker was male, for one. He also had an undeniably strong and authoritative undercurrent in his voice that ran beneath the surprised outrage. She was sure that she had never heard it before in her life. Perhaps a student?

Her eyes snapped open.

She was surprised to find a distinct absence of red and gold in the current scenery. Whereas McGonagall's office had been bright and, if imposingly neat, at least not forbidding, her current location was dark and pretentious. The walls were of smooth limestone and covered in elegant green tapestries, the floor was entrenched in marble, and to top it all off, there were glinting precious jewels of all sorts sparkling in their little niches along the furniture.

"I'm asking you a question," that same distinctive voice repeated silkily, this time with a threatening tone buried beneath heavy, stifling layers of cordiality. Luna looked down towards her hand with a bizarre sense of detachment, as if the body part wasn't really _hers._ It was still touching the book. More intriguing, however, was that somehow, the gaping, scorched hole in the middle had repaired itself.

How queer.

Steps, and a cool breath on the back of her tingling neck made Luna realize that the other occupant of the room had moved closer to her, _too_ close for comfort. His rather impressive aura, if her feelings were any measure of it, billowed around him – and thus, her – like an awe-inspiring cloak, seeping the air with cold, dangerous magic. It called to her, tugging at her clothes, her skin, her hair, and her _magic_ that fizzled and simmered under the surface – _just like the book_.

"Answer the question," those deep bell-tones sounded, even more menacing than the last, and Luna couldn't help slowly turning towards the source.

He was what other girls would consider handsome, she observed, with near-black windswept hair that half-hid a high forehead, chiseled cheekbones, and a strong, square jaw. His nose was prominent, yet aristocratic enough to match the rest of his sculpted features. He would have been the very image of classical perfection if not for his alabaster shade. In her opinion, it was worth the sacrifice. Not only was he quite lovely, but striking in a crowd with the sharp contrast of his skin and hair. If only he wasn't quite so sinister, Luna thought ruefully, he would resemble Harry very much, having the same coloring down to the minutest detail. The true distinction between them was in the eyes.

While both men possessed deep orbs that were an alarming shade of green, Harry's were always warm and welcoming, while the pair in front of her could only be describe as frigid. Harsh, unfeeling, unfathomable – and glittering with anger.

Luna didn't like those eyes.

Her hand latched on to the journal as if for comfort, stroking the pleasant leather-bound cover. Panic was starting to hit her. Freezing, bone-deep panic , panic she hadn't felt since three years ago, that made all sense in her head (admittedly not much to start with, if she listened to those around her) flee.

So, rather than answer him, she blurted out, "Where am I?"

Incredulity hit her companion's face for a second, replacing the rage for the tiniest, shortest, most impossible of moments before the burning intensity returned. The room seemed to plunge in temperature even as his eyes narrowed further. The sudden chill made Luna nervous. Her instincts were on edge and screaming at her to run.

The hand not touching the journal curled reflexively around her wand.

"I think you know exactly where you are, Miss Faulkner."

This wasn't good at all. She was Luna _Lovegood_, and even the dimmest of dolts knew that. She _was_ famous. Though she herself had trouble believing it, no one else did, and she'd been in the Prophet enough times for people to recognize her on sight. She rose to her feet, backing up a few feet in the process, but still had to look up to meet his eyes. At full height, she was only on eye level with the very tip of his patrician nose. Unfortunately.

"My last name isn't Faulkner," she informed him. Blibbering Blubopuses, where _was _she? Her only clue was that book, and even it wasn't quite right. It had fixed itself somehow. In fact, there were the words 'Tom Marvolo Riddle' emblazoned in silver lettering where that burnt-out hole used to be –

Oh, _no._

In her excitement to find a Gloompugger, she'd been too distracted to recognize it for what it really was: Ginny's book from first year. The book that had _possessed_ her friend, the book that Harry'd destroyed with basilisk venom, the book that was a _horcrux_, and the book that housed the spirit of Lord Voldemort, also known as –

"Don't play games with me. If your name isn't Faulkner, my name isn't Riddle."

- also known as Tom Marvolo Riddle, who was standing in front of her alive and well and demanding that she released his diary.

Bugger.

The journal clattered to the floor. Minutes seemed to pass as she glared at him and he at her. Underneath her skin, icy fear, for this was _Voldemort_, battled with burning anger at the man who'd murdered her father. The last remaining member of her once perfect family. Seeing him healthy and strong – how dare he be so when so many lay cold in their graves? – like this tore the scab off the old wound. Bitterness and hurt and sorrow gushed out and filled her mind with a single thought.

_He killed Daddy._

She would kill him.

_Like you killed Greyback? _Compassion squeaked softly in her head. Mind-Luna froze. She saw Compassion standing in front of her, taking the shape of an adorable giant rabbit, and took a deep breath. She wouldn't sink down to their level. Not again. Not even if it was Voldemort himself, unless he attacked her, which she almost hoped he did. Almost, because Luna knew better than to think she could win.

"Riddle, is it?" she asked coldly, sharply, so far from her usual dreaminess.

Voldemort's eyes gleamed irately, and before she knew it, he was only inches away from her, his breath warm on her face. The darkness humming in the air,curled and lightly closed around her throat. A threat. She took a second to wonder how he was doing it, before her own magic burst into action of its own accord. Flaring bright and angry, it built a wall between them, invisible but all too noticeable.

She swallowed hard. Her accidental magic had never been this strong before. And she had never been able to sense anyone's presence like _this_, not even Dumbledore and Harry, whose magic sang to her with phoenix song. It was as if she was wading in muddy pond of crackling, barely restrained power, about to burst free and do something terrible at any moment. A slight frown creased her forehead. It wasn't dark, exactly, just dangerous.

How could that be? Her accidental magic must be keeping the true darkness at bay.

Even so, Riddle's magic was overwhelming. Entrancing. It called to her, crooning, pulling at her to join it, to merge, and she wanted to, wanted to so badly that she almost stepped closer so she could melt into it.

Rationality appeared to block her. _Luna, get a grip!_

Jolted out of a trance, she slammed up her Occlumency shields up, relief filling her as the call vanished. She brushed her hair out of her eyes to find him still staring.

"You're not Faulkner."

_But you _are _Voldemort._

"No," she said aloud, "I'm not."

His wand was out before she knew it, as was hers.

"Then who are you?" There was a definite shade of crimson in his eyes. Voldemort's eyes. For the first time, Luna saw the physical resemblance. There had been nothing remotely ugly or snake-like in Riddle's visage up, but now, with his pupils dilated inside slits, it was quite obvious. The eyes were the window into the soul, were they not?

Terror. It threatened to overwhelm her, keeping her in place while it pulled her apart, and she knew she had to do _something_. Hastily, she backed away.

"Who are you?"

"I have to see Dumbledore," she said, trying to stay calm, even as her legs tensed to flee.

It was the wrong thing to say.

"Are you one of his spies?" A hint of madness overtook Voldemort's handsome face, making her shudder.

"No, but I have to see a professor." She gripped her wand harder.

"Really," he said with a twisted smile, "you were breaking into my things, and now you 'have to see a professor.' I'm afraid I don't exactly believe you."

"I wasn't breaking into your things. Look, nothing's been touched," she said desperately. "Just your book – and I didn't even open it!"

The smile vanished to be replaced by cold, paralyzing anger. "_Who sent you?_"

There was a reason Luna was in Ravenclaw and not Gryffindor. Although she was brave when she had to fight for her friends, she wasn't _that _brave when it was her alone, and not that proud. Between cowardice and certain death, she chose cowardice.

Rationality appeared smug.

"No one. It was a – a Portkey accident. I didn't mean to end up here."

All true, even the Portkey bit. After all, the horcrux had worked exactly the same way as one. Why couldn't it _be_ one? _Because Voldemort's alive, and he's been dead for three years._ Right.

"And you just happenedto pick up my diary, of all things."

"Yes."

Voldemort appeared angrier than ever at her matter-of-fact answer, "Enough of your games. If you won't tell me, I suppose I must simply find out myself.

"_Legilimens_."

_Protego!_ Luna flicked her wand. She was a little rusty – it had been two years, after all, since her stint in the Auror Corps. – but otherwise, it felt quite natural. Her shields were up and alert as she scanned the room. She wasn't a fool. She couldn't outduel Voldemort, and she would be the first to admit it. Evasion was a far better option.

She dashed for the door, slammed it behind her, and continued to run.


	3. Chapter 2

_Voldemort appeared angrier than ever at her matter-of-fact answer, "Enough of your games. If you won't tell me, I suppose I must simply find out myself._

"Legilimens."

Protego!_ Luna flicked her wand. She was a little rusty – it had been two years, after all, since her stint in the Auror Corps. – but otherwise, it felt quite natural. Her shields were up and alert as she scanned the room. She wasn't a fool. She couldn't outduel Voldemort, and she would be the first to admit it. Evasion was a far better option._

_She dashed for the door, slammed it behind her, and continued to run._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 2: Faulkner<strong>

Tom Marvolo Riddle stared at the closed door, his fingers curled into a tight fist. He could feel the monster raging inside him, slamming into the bars on its padlocked cage, and roaring for him to chase her, but try as he might, he couldn't quite bring himself to do it. It was an odd feeling. He wanted to, and he was burningly curious, yet the anger that was present only moments ago seemed to have fled with the girl.

He chalked it up to confusion. The girl was a mirror image of Faulkner with her wispy blonde hair and strange, ethereal features. Only she claimed not to be, and he couldn't help believing her when he looked into her piercing blue eyes that so reminded him of Dumbledore. She was _different_. Where Faulkner was shallow, irritating, and frankly, disturbingly obsessed with him, the girl appeared older and wiser. More hollow, rather_ like himself_, rose the unbidden thought, and he immediately pushed it out of his mind. Where had that come from? Ridiculous. Completely and utterly preposterous. She was below him, one of the vile sheep that made up the entirety of mundane society.

Tom hated the mundane.

They were representative of everything he hated humanity for: their conceit, their oily hideousness that they tried to hide behind layers of make-up and designer clothing, their tendency to gush and flatter and show _emotion_, the way they touched and hugged and slobbered like dogs, theirshortsightedness, their filthy habits, their despicably narrow minded brains, their cowardice, fear, and lack of vision, their sheer stupidity, and most of all, he loathed them for being _weak._ Inferior. Unequal.

He detested everyone and everything to an extent, but if average wizards were livestock, Muggles were nothing more than their excrement. Inhuman. And yet they thought to oppress their betters. The pathetic fools. There would come a time where _he _would create a better society, where _he _made the decisions and _he _would have his revenge by placing himself at the top of the world, and nothing – not the jealous and abysmally, irrevocably inconsequential children of the orphanage, not the envious and empty-headed pureblooded bigots of his own house, and not the overbearing suspicions of one Transfiguration Master – would be able to bring him down.

That was where his diary came in. A record of accomplishments and a chronicle of hopes, plans and dreams for the future. And the girl had nearly gotten it.

He didn't believe a word of what she said about it being an accident. Tom was, in addition to being the most brilliant student of his age, a master of deceit himself, and although she was good liar, she had nothing on him. Her fear was a dead giveaway. He had seen the trembling of her knees, noticed the stark terror in her eyes when she learned his name. While there was a primitive part of him pleased at the deference, for she was right to be afraid, the cold, logical part could not help but be apprehensive. He had never met her before in his life. She had no _reason_ to be so afraid. Tom Riddle had an _image – _brilliant but poor, handsome but modest, kind but a leader. He was the proverbial poster boy of Hogwarts.

A certain eccentric nuisance came immediately to his bemused mind, appearing suddenly and unwontedly just as usual. His mouth twisted into an ugly sneer. She had to be one of Dumbledore's agents. The old coot had never trusted him, and he was the only one who would have warned her, would have dirtied Tom's name. Ten minutes spent seeing the real him, and like every single other person who'd had the _misfortune_ to see the boy behind the façade of perfection, Dumbledore had been disgusted and reviled him for the rest of their acquaintance.

A familiar taste rose in his mouth, bitter and tangy. He was a freak among freaks. What was so loathsome about him, that he had to put on a mask for any kind of acceptance? Why couldn't –

He caught himself just in time, horrified at his thoughts. What was wrong with him? He hadn't allowed this kind of stupid, pointless questioning since he was fourteen, an emotional fool who'd let himself be stepped on and bullied by others. His knuckles were white as his grip left a dent on a polished mahogany post, another trapping of a wealth he, unlike his followers, did not possess.

He was Lord Voldemort, and Lord Voldemort needed no one.

Feeling assuaged, he straightened and stood from his chair. He would deal with the matter of the girl tomorrow; at the moment, he had a meeting to attend.

* * *

><p>She was sprinting. Luna couldn't remember ever going as fast as she was at the moment; urgency and terror were twin forces driving her up, up, and up toward – toward where? In the heat of the moment, in the amazement and shock that had struck her when she saw the Dark Lord <em>alive<em>, she'd forgotten that Dumbledore was with her parents. Dumbledore had no Horcruxes, no memories trapped inside books, that she could turn to for advice.

Except he had a portrait.

Thanking God for small favors, Luna kept running. So great was her anxiety that she forgot to wave to the portrait of Wanda the Weird, choosing instead to climb the stairs three at a time in huge, leaping strides, fervently hoping she wasn't being followed. It was likely that she was, knowing Voldemort, but Voldemort hadn't looked like that in her lifetime. Nor was he a memory.

That meant one of two things. Either it _wasn't _Voldemort, which Luna rather doubted, or he had somehow come back. The very thought sent a shiver down her spine. Why couldn't the menace just _stay dead_? Hadn't he done enough? And how, _how_ in the Seven Isles had he managed to resurrect himself once again? It was as if he couldn't die – she stopped herself there. That train of thought would get her nowhere. She skidded to a stop in front of the gargoyle guarding the office.

"Cockroach Clusters," she said firmly. McGonagall had, in a bout of nostalgia, decided to continue Dumbledore's trait of using candy names as passwords. Or had she? Luna could have _sworn _that it was the password, but the stone sculpture refused to budge. Oh, dear. This wasn't good. Not at all. Why wasn't it working? She _had _to see Dumbledore's portrait. Harry was away on Auror business, Ron and Hermione on their honeymoon, Neville taking his Herbology Mastery Exams, and Ginny – well, Ginny was in Spain with the Harpies. There was no one else she could talk to. The entrance _had_ to open. "Cockroach Clusters, Cockroach Clusters, Cockroach Clusters – "

A hand brushed her shoulder, and Luna jumped a foot into the air.

"Miss Faulkner, are you quite alright?"

She whipped around to meet the unforgettable cornflower blue eyes of a younger, and very much _alive_, Albus Dumbledore. Her brain hummed and sputtered like it was working on overdrive. _Impossible, impossible, impossible_. "But you're – you're – "

"What am I?" he asked, frowning bemusedly.

_Dead_, supplied Luna's mind, but she swallowed the words in favor of her more important message. If You-Know-Who could rise from the grave, who was she to say that Dumbledore couldn't? There was no time for such trivialities.

"Professor, Voldemort's back!"

Not an inkling of recognition registered on his relatively unlined face. Instead, the crease between his brows became deeper, though his eyes continued to twinkle.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean."

Luna's eyes widened. This was ridiculous; supposedly dead Dumbledore didn't know who _Voldemort _was. Perhaps it was the Wrackspurts? But they had always steered clear of the Headmaster...

"How odd," she remarked dreamily to drown her disbelief. It couldn't be. They couldn't fight Voldemort _again _without Dumbledore, not without the man who was the pinnacle of the Light. "You led the fight against him for two decades. I would have thought you would remember."

"Did I?" One of the teacher's auburn eyebrows rose. "Although everyone assumes that I'm a relic from the days of Merlin, I must admit to being in my late twenties at the time, and in no mood to do anything but wander aimlessly around the world."

She froze. That would make Dumbledore forty, almost fifty today. Fifty-six years too young.

Come to think of it, Voldemort wasn't quite...right, either. She'd assumed he was a Horcrux come to life, sixteen as if he was preserved in the diary, but he looked older. If she had to hazard a guess, she would estimate him to be approaching eighteen. Nevertheless, that wasn't concrete proof of his age. His lithe, confident walk was one that few sixteen-year-olds possessed. Luna could not imagine a shy Lord Voldemort. Perhaps he had always had that cold self-assurance. Presuming that the discrepancies in age in the two not-supposed-to-be-alive wizards were real, however, Luna felt that something was very, very off.

A frightening thought suddenly occurred to her.

"Professor, what year is this?" she found herself asking. Shock flitted over Dumbledore's face. He tilted his head and regarded her with a grave expression, his gaze full of concern. Luna knew that look, having received it often. It meant something along the lines of: _Luna, are you alright? Are you quite sane? Do you need to visit the hospital wing or St. Mungo's?_ She swallowed hard. Never had she expected to receive that from Professor Dumbledore, whose quirks and unique sense of fashion had given them more than enough reason to relate.

"Nineteen forty-four."

_Merlin_. It was as she'd suspected, but suspicion and confirmation were two very different things, and confirmation that one had somehow traveled fifty years into the past to a time when Voldemort was still a teenager – _a teenage Dark Lord!_ – was at least mildly disconcerting. Or would have been, had she not already accustomed herself to two speaking dead people already. Luna was quick to adapt to weirdness in any case. She flashed Dumbledore her sunniest smile.

"We should really talk for a moment," she observed aloud.

"Of course. However, it's rather late to be wandering the halls, so if we could continue this in my office?"

Luna nodded and followed him into a small, dark (like the rest of the castle, for it was rather late) room lit only by a single, flickering candle on the wall. She could almost _feel _the walls pressing in on her, pushing, pushing, until they crushed her. Tiny and black enclosed spaces brought up memories she'd rather forget.

"_Lumos maximus_."

Light blazed from the end of her knobby willow wand, illuminating the entire room, and she stepped back, satisfied. Her gaze swept over the place. While not quite messy, the desk and adjoining cabinets could not be considered neat, covered with papers flying everywhere. Silver gadgets lined the topmost shelves, and thick, heavy tomes were scattered everywhere. Most eye-catching of all was the beautiful red and gold bird perched upon the ledge of the single small window.

"It's nice to see you again, Fawkes," she greeted the phoenix, who trilled in reply. She turned to Dumbledore with a lost expression on her face. "You have a lovely bird."

"Thank you." He smiled at her appreciatively, running straight fingers over his familiar's feathers. In Luna's time, they'd always been old and gnarled. Yet another difference. "So, what are we here to talk about, Miss Faulkner?"

The words _I'm not Miss Faulkner _rose to the tip of her tongue. She opened her mouth, ready to let them fly out free and strong –

_Sunshine trickled into a pink-tinted room. It was huge, with paneled floor to ceiling windows covered by lilac curtains. The ceiling was carved delicately and intrinsically with images of faeries and sprites. A glittering crystal chandelier hung from the center, casting rainbows of reflected light on the rich carpet that covered the floor._

_Luna was lying in the softest bed she'd ever touched. It was, literally, quite like a mass of clouds, as if it was spun by a colony of Sky Spiders. Rubbing her eyes blearily, she sat up to hear high-pitched giggles coming from beyond the door before it burst open._

"_Surprise!" screamed a little girl, golden-haired and blue-eyed, just like a fairytale princess. Her dark blonde hair swung back and forth as she sprinted across to jump on the mattress, bouncing and laughing. _

_To Luna's surprise, the words that came out of her mouth were definitely not hers._

"_Go and bother someone else, Gladys," she snapped, then rolled over to sleep some more._

Luna swallowed hard. What was _that_? A memory? She didn't know, and that made her nervous. All of this time travel business was disorienting. She couldn't keep this to herself; she didn't think she could manage. She knew no one and nothing in this world, she didn't know how to get back, and she had no identification of any kind. _Technically_, she wasn't supposed to exist.

Except for the fact everyone kept calling her "Miss Faulkner," who she most decidedly wasn't...was she?

Come to think of it, she felt a little different. More vibrant, more energetic. She'd attributed it to adrenaline, but what if it wasn't that? Nerves made her reach to stroke the crescent shaped scar burned unto her forearm, her fingertips reaching for the familiar roughness, the lack of feeling –

Her skin was baby smooth.

For that matter, her hair seemed different too. Lighter, tamer, and incredibly soft upon touch, as if someone spent hours caring for it each and every day. Luna looked down. She had not noticed in the hectic rush of the last few hours, but her sunshine yellow robes had changed to a drab, dismal black. A silver and gold badge with ornate, curling letters that spelled 'Head Girl' rested on her chest. And most surprising of all was the little green and silver _S_ that was emblazoned underneath.

"I'm a Slytherin, aren't I?" she breathed softly, tilting her head as she looked into Dumbledore's quizzical, knotted brows. "And Luna Faulkner – what an odd name. I suppose I like it – although it doesn't quite have the same ring to it – "

"Miss Faulkner, you haven't hit your head, have you?"

"In a way," said Luna thoughtfully, "I suppose I have. This is all quite disorienting, just as if I really _did _hit my head."

"What are you getting at?" The then Transfiguration Master appeared alarmed for the sake of her mental wellbeing. No matter; it wasn't the first time she'd received a look like that.

So she let the bombshell drop.

"I think, Professor, that I'm the victim of a body switch."

* * *

><p>Slytherins were a rather stern bunch, from the look of it. They sat all in neat rows, and from the very first impression she had, she could tell they were different from the rest of the school, even in the 1940s. While the Gryffs were boisterous and loud and fun-loving, the Hufflepuffs chattered, and the Ravenclaws unashamedly debated through academic discourse, they were elegantly poised in their seats. Polite small talk was made in soft tones, while silver knives gracefully cut sausage into small, even pieces. Order and class.<p>

But Luna didn't particularly care about most of them, not even the platinum blonde that screamed "Malfoy," not the heavy lidded boy that just spoke of "Black." Her eyes sought one person in particular.

_Lord Voldemort._

He was at the head of the table on the right side, the side close to the staff. The opposing end was empty. Not even a chair was there to contest his authority. His back was ramrod straight, and he held himself with an ease that made Luna's hair stand on end as he conducted smooth conversation, speaking little, but holding an implacable authority that was impossible to miss, his handsome visage smiling and nodding to hide the monstrosity beneath. And her throat suddenly felt very, very dry.

He would see through her in a second, and then where would she be?

"You can do this," said Courage. He – for she had always thought of him as a weary, seasoned warrior – stepped closer to her, radiating quiet strength. "I'll be here for you." He glittered in her mind's eye, a sunshine yellow lion that resembled a dandelion more than fierce predator, and nuzzled her shoulder, and she felt a warm rush of energy wash into her veins.

Head up, shoulders back, and with a sunny disposition, she walked toward the sea of green and silver. They continued to stare at her. It was only natural, Luna supposed, for she – or Luna Faulkner, rather – had been missing for an entireday. And she knew that gossip was as rich and attractive to students as honey was to bees.

"Morning," she said pleasantly, determined not to watch Riddle any longer than she had. She slid into an empty chair next to a chestnut-haired girl with sparkling grey eyes. "I hope this seat wasn't taken."

The group's eyes widened, apart from Riddle, whose face was unreadable as ever.

"Luna! We missed you!" exclaimed the girl beside her.

Luna smiled warmly at Grey Eyes. _What a nice girl_, she thought to herself as she said quite honestly, and very apologetically, "I'm afraid I don't know your name."

There was shocked, pregnant pause. Luna felt more out of place than ever.

"But if I could remember it, then I'm sure I'd miss you too," she said hastily, trying to mollify Grey Eyes. "Did anyone ever tell you have lovely eyes?"

"No," Grey Eyes said weakly, appearing too stupefied to say anything more.

"A shame," Luna replied, spearing a piece of ham with her fork. Riddle's eyes were burning a hole into the side of her head. _Does he recognize me?_ "I should have done so earlier, but I was so caught up in the Hospital Wing that I was rather occupied."

"Hospital Wing?" was the faint echo.

"I appeared to have gotten a terrible bout of amnesia. Rumor is it that I hit my head, though I'm not too sure myself," she explained.

There was an immediate, collective sigh of (false) commiseration, while Malfoy – for Straw-Haired Boy could only be a Malfoy – and quite a few of his cronies' eyebrows twitched, and that brought them to Luna's attention. The seating arrangement was very strange at the Slytherin table. A rigid hierarchy, one could say, that ranked by age except for a notable exception: all of the people with the most presence upon first glance were ringed around a certain Dark Lord.

The phrase "holding court" immediately came to mind along with startled panic as she realized that she'd picked a spot smack in the middle of the assembly. And as if on cue, the King chose that exact moment to speak to his subject.

"If," came the silken voice of Tom Riddle, "you've forgotten us, then introductions are certainly in order."

* * *

><p>AN:

Thank you for reading! I'm very sorry that this update took so long; school's started, so time's been short. Thank you to all the reviewers, and I really appreciate any reviews!

-Allarice


	4. Chapter 3

_There was an immediate, collective sigh of (rather hollow) commiseration, while Malfoy – for Straw-Haired Boy could only be a Malfoy – and quite a few of his cronies' eyebrows twitched, and that brought them to Luna's attention. The seating arrangement was very strange at the Slytherin table. A rigid hierarchy, one could say, that ranked by age except for a notable exception: all of the people with the most presence upon first glance were ringed around a certain Dark Lord._

_The phrase "holding court" immediately came to mind along with startled panic as she realized that she'd picked a spot smack in the middle of the assembly. And as if on cue, the King chose that exact moment to speak to his subject._

_"If," came the silken voice of Tom Riddle, "you've forgotten us, then introductions are certainly in order."_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3: Classes and Castes<strong>_  
><em>

Her hand immediately felt for her wand, which had been hastily stowed in her sleeve. Courage whimpered in her ear. Rationality chanted again. _Must not kill, must not kill, must not kill._

Her fingers relaxed.

"That would be quite helpful," she managed to say. She didn't look at him, but instead turned roughly in his direction, keeping her eyes fixed beyond his shoulder on the brightly lit candles of a chandelier. Not that it really helped. Luna could still feel that dangerous, magnetic pull regardless of how thick her Occlumency shields were built.

"Of course," said Riddle, nodding regally at her. In her peripheral vision, she saw a strange little half smile playing upon his lips as he gestured absently with his hands, his arms working in a fluid motion that somehow enhanced his already velvet voice. Charm rolled off him in waves, but Luna wasn't fooled. _She_ could see the red-eyed terror hiding beneath the handsome façade. "My name is Tom Riddle, your co-Head this year. It's a pleasure to make your re_-_acquaintance_._"

Judging by the way he stressed the "re," he definitely hadn't forgotten their chance encounter a few weeks back. Luna swallowed hard and took a swig of pumpkin juice, relishing the way it cooled her tense nerves. "Pleased to meet you as well."

She was infinitely proud of how even her voice remained.

There was a tense moment of silence until Riddle looked away from her. As if on cue, a pasty boy with an acne ridden complexion immediately gave her a shallow, sitting bow. He moved stiffly, almost reluctantly, with a hard gleam to his eyes that she didn't like.

"Evan Rosier, at your service," he said coolly. Luna raised her eyebrows at him.

"Is there something wrong with your teeth?"

He visibly gawked at her. Whatever he had expected Luna Faulkner to say, that had not been it. "I don't believe so. May I ask why?"

"Oh, just wondering," Luna said off-handedly. His smile had been so stiff and rigid, she'd rather suspected that he had a toothache, but it was apparently not the case. Maybe it was constipation. Should he take some pills? Would it be proper of her to ask? Perhaps not, as it _was_ dinnertime. She would have to remember to do so later.

Rosier winced nearly unnoticeably, while Luna noticed a rustling of the tablecloth. Her gaze lifted to meet that of the blonde seated next to him, who wore a pleasant, amiable expression as if he hadn't just kicked Acne Face.

"Please forgive him; he's an imbecile through and through." The word "imbecile" sounded immensely funny from Malfoy's drawling, cultured tones, funny enough for Luna to crack a slight smile as he continued, "I'm Abraxas Malfoy, and this – " he made a vague gesture toward the other crony flanking him – "is Orion Black. It's a pleasure to have you back, Luna."

"It's a pleasure to _be_ back," she lied airily, as she scooped a few potatoes onto her plate with her free hand. Back – back in time, not back from an injury. It was all a lie. Dumbledore had drilled her on enough during the day about the events of their time that she wouldn't be ridiculously lost, told her the names of her parents, her pureblood lineage, and everything else inside the school records he had managed to get his hands on.

She then made the "re-acquaintance" of Angela and Dominic Crabbe, a pair of heavy set twins that looked more adept at sitting on people than dueling, Walburga, Lucretia, and little Dorothea Black, who were every bit as different from each other as the sisters of her own day, an extraordinarily handsome boy that would have made even _her _eyes glued to his skin if not for the last name of Dolohov, a silent Raphael Lestrange who said little other than to argue with Lucretia, and quiet, pleasant Thaddeus Nott, whom she liked best of all upon first impressions.

Those were the ones she remembered well, at least. There was an impression of a catty blonde and a thin, gangly boy that lurked vaguely in the recesses of her mind, as well as numerous others that she knew existed, but could not describe in any way. Grey Eyes turned out to be named Cecilia Avery, whose brother was in the year below. Luna couldn't decide whether to be worried that she couldn't keep an eye on yet another Death Eater to be, or to be relieved she didn't have to with him.

"Luna, are you listening to me at _all_?" demanded Lucretia's screech.

"Of course," she replied, watching rainbows play over her gilded plate. The conversation here was _such _a bore; honestly, she hadn't an inkling of what they were saying. She missed Ginny, and Harry, and Hermione, and even insensitive Ron, who could always make her laugh. In fact, ironically, the only thing that kept her from crying or falling asleep was the cold fear lodged in her stomach.

Riddle was watching her.

It wasn't obvious enough for others to think he was a wacko (which he absolutely was), but to her, it was like a wand pointed at her back, a curse about to be fired any second. She strove to ignore it, but couldn't entirely. Rationality was telling her that she was _safe_, that Dumbledore was watching, that Riddle wouldn't try anything here.

She couldn't believe Rationality, much as she wanted to.

"Luna!" It was Cecilia this time. "Look at the paper! Your family's in it!"

"Oh," said Luna without much enthusiasm. Her father – who was _that _again? Not Daddy, to be sure; her father…she glanced down at the _Daily Prophet._ Rubbish, the paper was; she briefly wondered if it was quite as politically biased as it would be in the future, but then snorted and thought a definite "yes."

She scanned the page quickly, as expected of her. **War Continues To Ravage Austrian Countryside**, read one rather ominous heading. War…the one with Grindelwald. Right. Well, it hadn't really touched England either way, so Luna wasn't too worried about that. Besides, Dumbledore could deal with Grindelwald. It wasn't as if he hadn't before – not before. After. Not after either. It was more like the first time around. First time around? Why was she sure it was the first time around? It could be the second, or the third, and she might just not know it. After all, she couldn't be the only one to travel in time –

"There! Look!" Cecilia had grown impatient. A perfectly manicured fingernail prodded a thin, frail man in the photo. He had dark hair, and appeared rather pale and ghostly in the black-and-white photograph, too ghostly to be handsome, but regal and imposing in the rigidity of his back, the haughty tilt of his chin, and the sharp, intelligent glances he shot at the cameraman. Beside him stood an elegant, equally slender woman, her white hair tied neatly in a bun without a hair out of place.

And in front of both of them was a face that Luna knew all too well: the protruding brow bone, bulbous large eyes, and too small mouth. Except the thin hair was full and thick and pulled up into a plait at the top of her head, and she looked far younger than the last time Luna'd seen herself in the mirror. The girl in the picture couldn't have been older than six or seven.

Regardless of age, Luna Faulkner was eerily identical to the Luna of the future.

"Have you even _looked_, Luna? Your father is making peace talks with Germany!"

He was? Her "father" was so different from Daddy, it was hard to imagine. Her mouth curved into a half nostalgic, half bitter smile – Luna Faulkner's father was alive, while hers was dead.

Cecilia gave her a wide-eyed look of concern. "Are you alright? You're so distracted today."

"Oh, it's nothing." Luna gave her her best cheerful smile. "It's just all so disorienting. Am I usually like this?"

The other girl giggled with mirth, finding something infinitely amusing in Luna's bewildered expression. "Definitely not."

"Why?"

"Oh, poor dear, you really can't remember anything," she said pityingly. She leaned in and dropped her voice to a whisper. "You haven't even looked at Riddle once."

Luna froze.

"_What?_" she blurted loudly, causing half the table to give her curious looks. Her cheeks went slightly pink as she made a shooing motion with her hand. _That's right, nothing to see here_, agreed Compassion. Courage was more irritated. _Incorrigible gossips._

_Shush,_ Luna thought at both of them while trying to quell the Gulping Plimpies doing acrobatics in her stomach. Riddle – and her? Why would Luna Faulkner have watched him? Did she suspect him? Surely no one could willingly associate with the boy –

"Luna!" Cecilia had changed from smug and teasing to concerned. "You're so pale and distracted. Do you need see Madame Harrison?"

"No, I'm only tired. I didn't really get much sleep last night, so…" She trailed off, offering what she hoped was an apologetic smile. "I think I'll go for a short walk before class."

She slid out of her her seat and walked to the doors of the Great Hall, aware that a large number of people were staring her way, but not caring enough to stop. A minute later, she was practically in full sprint as she headed outside.

The crisp air hit her with a blast. Around her, leaves swirled, caught up in the cold wind of autumn. It was definitely chilly, chilly enough to make pink goose bumps rise on her hands and wrists and her cheeks to turn a ruddy red, but she couldn't bring herself to care. Instead, her eyes sought the trees and hills and lake. They were the only things still intact from _her _time. The only constants in her life.

Absurdly, her vision started to go filmy. Her hands flew up to her cheeks. Would she cry? She didn't want to cry. Crying was pointless.

Oh, but how she missed Ginny, and Rolf, and Harry, and Neville, and Hannah, and _everyone_. She didn't belong here, not with a group of Slytherins who talked as if they were characters of a 19th century romance novel, and definitely not with a teenage Dark Lord breathing down her neck.

Luna jumped nearly a foot in the air as something touched her shoulder. _Threat_, screamed Instinct. _Red alert, red alert _– on reflex, she spun to face the source, her hand touching the wand hidden in her cloak. The instigator stumbled backwards in surprise.

It was only a boy, or perhaps a young man. The first thing she noticed about him was that he had flame red hair. _True red_, supplied a corner of her mind – she couldn't quite tell which corner – _not that dark orange color that most people have._ The second thing was that the freckles on his face formed a pleasant amorphous shape that resembled a pixie. Below the blob, his mouth was frozen in thin, razor-sharp smile.

"Faulkner. I apologize; I mistook you for someone else."

Luna relaxed. He was a student, a Ravenclaw from the blue and grey of his tie. Only a student, and besides, why would he want to harm her? She was safe. The war was over, and had been for years – or it hadn't yet begun.

"Don't apologize; it's nice that you care. Not a lot of people do."

His face was still stiff, but Luna caught a flicker of shock in his eyes. Why? For that matter, why had he become so icy?

"Don't mock me," he said curtly, and turned to leave. Luna couldn't help it. She rose and ran after him.

"I wasn't mocking you! I don't even know your name!"

He stopped and turned to stare at her incredulously, a stormy thundercloud crossing his entire face. "Of course you don't. You only told the entire student population that I was gay last year, remember? And tried to get me suspended fifth year, don't think I forgot."

Luna blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

"_Are _you gay?"

"No!" he snapped angrily. He turned to face her, his chocolate brown eyes burning with fury. "Although it isn't as if you care about the truth, is it?"

"Of course I care!" she tried to protest, but he silenced her with a look of absolute revulsion.

"You aren't worth my time, Faulkner. You might think you're all high and mighty, but in the end, you're just a pathetic, rumor-mongering bitch who enjoys ruining lives."

And with that venom filled message, he left in quick, stomping strides, leaving a bewildered Luna to wonder what it was all about.

Luna was thoroughly distracted throughout her first few classes, but no one took much notice. Perhaps it was that Luna Faulkner had, despite her title of Head Girl, a reputation to be something of an airhead, or maybe everyone just took pity on her supposed amnesia. Either way, Luna was grateful. She had enough to worry about as was. Her confrontation with Red had been unsettling, she could barely keep names straight, and on top of that, Riddle was in every single class she'd had so far.

She nodded again to Cecilia's endless chatter as they walked into Transfiguration. This was one class she'd really been looking forward too. The others were rather dull, simply because she'd taken them before, but this time, Dumbledore would teach. Not to say that McGonagall hadn't been very good; it was simply that there were few on the future Headmaster's level of brilliance. The very second she walked in, the words "Take a seat" appeared on the blackboard. Luna frowned; a neat piece of charm work, to be sure, but not very original.

She sat anyway. To her surprise, Cecelia didn't plop – well, not pop, Cecilia simply _didn't_ plop – down next to her. In fact, the other girl was blushing bright pink.

"It's class with the Ravenclaws," she said, suddenly speaking very fast. "I'm sorry, Robert and I usually pair in Transfiguration. Assigned seats, you see. And – " she cast a furtive glance around her to make sure no one was listening, then bent down to whisper, "this _is _your favorite class."

"What?" Luna said intelligently.

Cecilia sighed in exasperation. Call her paranoid, but Luna thought that the sigh sounded suspiciously like the word "Riddle." She shook her head; she really needed to relax and stop worrying. Dumbledore could handle Minimort. All _she _needed to do was find a way home –

Think of the Devil.

At that very moment, Riddle slid into the seat beside her. She couldn't help but flinch at his nearness. Every nerve flowed with tension. _Danger, danger,_ Instinct shrieked once again, and nothing she did could help her relax. It was that aura. That silky shroud of power that billowed out from him wherever he went pulled at her, raising her hackles. That, and the grisly images of the dead that constantly filled her head at the sound of his name, the sight of his face.

To top it off, she knew he could tell she was nervous. His lips quirked into a knowing smirk as he murmured, "Is something wrong, Miss Faulkner?"

She barely managed not to snap "you" at his smug expression. Instead, she plastered a smile on her face and said as shortly as possible, "Nothing."

His left arm, the one closest to her, slipped onto the desk, and _her _entire right side twitched with the desire to get away.

"Are you sure? You seem rather tense."

"Just nerves." _He knew_. It was a paralyzing, mind-numbing thought even as her mouth babbled on of its own accord. "I'm a little worried about classes. I mean, I forgot everything. Daddy will be so disappointed if I fail – Dumbledore!"

She was saved. Luna had never been so glad to see a teacher in her life. Beside her, Riddle's face fell into a mask of stone; she didn't think he agreed with her sentiments.

Luna: 1, Riddle: 0.

Class practically flew – forget flew, _soared _by, despite the fact that she was seated to the most evil wizard of the last hundred years. Dumbledore was her safety net, her reassurance. Wasn't he the only man Voldemort had ever feared? The silent student next to her wouldn't cause any trouble for her, not in class. For the next two hours, she could just learn.

And learn she did. Dumbledore _was _brilliant, moving with a quiet genius; everything he showed the class was nothing short of miraculous. He moved absurdly quickly, as it was the seventh year course, where only the best remained, and even Luna, who had learned everything once before, had to work to keep up. Probably, it was partially because she was distracted by her desk mate.

Riddle was as silent and unmoving as rock beside her.

The tension between him and the Deputy Headmaster was palpable. Their magic san g, the only two people in the room who had such audible auras; one was light and strong and calm, the other dark and – and what? Luna didn't know how to describe it. But even now, they clashed furiously. A battle of wills was silently taking place, despite the fact that Dumbledore never looked at Riddle once.

How could the other students be so oblivious as to not notice?

Riddle's features were set in determination. The crackling energy in the room built, expanded, intensified. Still Dumbledore wouldn't look at him.

Just as Luna was rapidly becoming afraid that the walls would explode from the sheer force contained in that small classroom, Riddle's hand rose into the air. _A challenge._

It remained there for the rest of class, but Dumbledore never called his name.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Thanks for bearing with me and my slow updates, everyone! Life is busy; I don't really have as much time to write as I would hope to.

Anyway, thanks for reading, and I would love any reviews! A big thank you to LizziePixie-Aiko, TemariDarkSoul, I like black clothes, forbiddenluv, .Chaos, wanderingmusician, and Mynet for reviewing. I'm really glad you enjoy the story so far!

-Allarice


	5. Chapter 4

_Just as Luna was rapidly becoming afraid that the walls would explode from the sheer force contained in that small classroom, Riddle's hand rose into the air. A challenge._

_It remained there for the rest of class, but Dumbledore never called his name._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 4: The Gauntlet<strong>

The bell couldn't ring too soon. As soon as the brassy tones struck the room, Luna stood hastily, sweeping her things off the desk, and all but fled. Not looking where she was going, she bumped into something hard as she turned the corner.

Or, rather, her rather heavy and pointy Transfiguration book did.

"Ow!"

"Sorry, sorry," she chanted quickly. A flash of red winked into existence as she looked up. "You're the boy from the lake!"

"Rather unfortunately." He definitely wasn't too pleased to see her, Luna thought a little sadly. She raised her eyes to his, looking like a puppy he'd kicked.

Silence.

He appeared puzzled now. There was neither antipathy nor rancor on his face, and the resentment that had worn wrinkles into his forehead had vanished. Was he her age, or younger? Her age…Luna smiled. She was older than all of the students here, regardless of how she appeared.

Her mirth broke the connection, and he brushed past her without a word. The entire altercation couldn't have lasted more than a few seconds. Yet somehow, it felt like minutes on end.

She shook her head and kept walking. Hopefully, Riddle didn't have _this _class too –

"Do you need any assistance getting to your next class, Miss Faulkner?"

_Oh, spite. Oh, hell. _The lyrical words of the fairies had never been as apt to describe a situation as they were this moment. She was cornered. It was clever of him, to use her clearly false "amnesia" against her. If she said no, she would be admitting she hadn't forgotten anything. And if yes, she would have to suffer through his company.

She should have waited for Cecilia after all.

"If you must," she said, almost rudely. Since she was discovered, there was no point in playing the courteous one anymore, not when they were alone. Careful, yes. Wary, definitely. But polite? Unnecessary.

To her surprise, he didn't balk or frown or betray any annoyance at her belligerence. Instead, a rather threatening smile played upon his crimson lips.

"Don't forget your place," he said softly, trying to catch her eyes with his. She stubbornly refused. "You _are _still one of my Slytherins, despite your badge and your newfound attitude."

"I'd like to think I've always had this sunny disposition." Her smile was earnest, cheerful as she could make it. Her hand, on the other hand, was twitching for something to stab him with. _So impulsive_, remarked Rationality disapprovingly. _Think. What would happen if you tried to kill Riddle? _

Luna shoved Instinct _and _Rationality into a corner.

"Amusing." Riddle's expression had gone hard, steely, sharp as the edge of a blade. Alarm bells rang and her vision flashed red. In unison, the voices in her head cried, _run! _"But you _will _tell me what you were doing with my things, or I'll make life very, very difficult for you, Faulkner."

She felt like a caged animal. Could she run? Her legs were desperate to break into a sprint, and flee, but to where? Wherever she went, he would find her. And he was so close now, ever so close, close enough for the black fog to swarm and overwhelm.

She couldn't think. Voldemort, Voldemort, _Voldemort_. He was everywhere, the red eyes, the snake-like visage. The carnage of war surrounded her. Colin lay to the left, his eyes bright and glassy, Fred to the right, a ghost of laughter still etched upon his face, Neville with the flames flying around his face like some strange, hellish halo –

_Snap out of it, Luna_.

The words had dropped from her lips before she knew it.

"Try me, Riddle."

_A challenge._

And unlike Dumbledore, Riddle didn't hesitate to pick up the thrown gauntlet. He bared his teeth in a wild, dangerous smile.

"With pleasure."

* * *

><p>Even Luna had to admit that what she'd done was stupid as she scurried – yes, <em>scurried!<em> – to the Divination room. Stupid, but inevitable. He knew. But then, who would believe him, unless he planted his own evidence? And she had the Legilimency to bring up if he ever accused her. Mind-rape was hardly legal, after all. They were at a stalemate. But that didn't mean they were on equal footing.

Yet, it was worth it. When she'd said those three words, when she refused to bend back and roll over for him, she'd felt an addictive rush of satisfaction. Riddle wasn't Voldemort, not yet. He hadn't gone through sixty years of delving into long lost arts, performing dark rituals to increase his power, and decades of experience in war. He was merely a student, and, if she had her timeline correct, he was just starting his little organization of Death Eaters.

The irrational fear was gone as she settled into Divination.

Neither Cecelia nor Riddle had taken this class, so Luna was content to sit at her own table, alone among the comfort of the tea leaves. They'd always smelled good to her. The current concoction was a delicious blend of unicorn hairs and fairy dust and magic herbs. Mother had loved tea leaves, while Daddy loved to watch her loving tea leaves and to joke that she loved "smelly bags of dirt" more than her husband.

As Trelawney came round to pour a steaming cup, she couldn't resist asking, "Is this Paradox Peppermint?"

The Divination teacher gave her a funny stare before nodding. She was very little like the professor of her day, despite the name; her dark hair was done in wild waves and silvering at the roots, while her clothing was neon purple. But her brown eyes were cool and knowledgeable, and she moved with the assurance of someone who knew what they were doing.

"I wasn't aware you knew so much about tea leaves, Miss Faulkner."

"Until a few days ago, I wasn't aware I knew so much either."

Professor Trelawney appeared thoughtful for a moment. "Amnesia, I heard?"

"Unfortunately," explained Luna with a small laugh, "I didn't have the sense to fall down the stairs and not up. I hit my head on a ridge."

Trelawney frowned, until a small, creeping smile slowly showed on her face. "Unfortunate? Maybe not. I like this version of you much better." She turned to the five-person class and clapped her hands. The room went silent in an impressively short amount of time; despite her dress, it appeared the Trelawney had that gift that McGonagall and Snape possessed in their own time. "Who has an interesting fact to share?"

Not a hand was raised. Luna frowned slightly. How awful! Her hand flew up.

"White daisies are terrible for your health," she stated. "The yellow ones, on the other hand, provide feelings of happiness and energy if you wear them on your eyebrows."

A short girl gave her a flat, irritated look. The other students appeared to be debating between whether or not she was serious, but Trelawney gave her an approving nod. "Very good. Now, if no one else would like to share, I would appreciate it if you would join me at the center table. I have that interesting puzzle again for you today."

A boy with messy black hair cloistered in the back corner of the room groaned loudly as he stood and moved to the large, radish (there were a few placed uncomfortably close together) patterned piece of furniture in the middle. A redhead, lighter and more orange than the one she'd confronted in the hall, slid into the seat next to him. One by one, all of the students sat; Luna quickly noticed she was the only Slytherin there. _Well._

In front of each them was a small, vaguely cubic wooden structure, made up of hastily jumbled sticks that hooked onto each other at the ends. Noticing Luna's puzzled expression, Trelawney's smile only grew wider.

"Excellent, excellent! We'll move on when the puzzle is solved. If anyone wants more tea, it's in the cabinets; send up some sparks when you finish!"

And with a twirl of her neon green cape, she was gone.

The very minute she stepped out of the room, a collective air of annoyance rose in the room as students began to prod their objects with their wands. The redhead even threw his cube on the floor with a disgusted expression. "Old bat."

"What do you mean?" asked Luna, feeling as if she was missing something quite important. Black-Hair looked up from his study of the cube. He looked quite familiar; something about the thin shape of his face and hair reminded her of Harry.

"Oh, right. Amnesia, was it?" he asked distractedly, continuing to jab the puzzle as if it had seduced his sister before running off in the past. "I'm sorry; that must be a bit of a downer. It's just that Trelawney's given us this exact same thing since the start of the school year, and she refuses to teach us anything until we solve it. She even _says _the same thing every day." He pitched his voice to a high falsetto. "'I have an _interesting _puzzle for you today!'"

The redhead chortled, but a bespectacled girl shot him a disapproving look.

"Potter, Weasley, shut up already," she snapped. She then turned to Luna. "They're right idiots, if you've forgotten. Don't listen to a word they say; Professor Trelawney is actually a rather renowned Seer. She can be nonsensical at times, but I'm sure that – "

"If you're so clever, then why haven't _you _solved the puzzle and put us out of our misery?" the one that had to be Weasley retorted. The girl turned bright pink and put her own wand to use, stabbing the block vehemently. Luna wondered if she imagined a boy's face there.

The silence continued, so she started humming Wendolin the Weird's Lullaby – a rather fantastic melody, to be sure, as she examined the puzzle. _La-dee-dum, la-la-dee-dee-dum-dum, la-la-la-dee-dee-dee-dum_. It was pretty, in a rough-hewn sort of way; splinters rose from the blocks like prickles of a porcupine. The pieces interlocked tightly. They jiggled a little, but couldn't move more than a millimeter or so, except for a single loose piece. Luna frowned and examined it more closely before pulling on it, hard.

It slid halfway, then refused to budge.

The petite one who hadn't said anything yet eyed her efforts with a combination of contempt and derision. "That_'s _a dead end," she said haughtily, her well penciled black brows raised high on her forehead. "I figured it out eons ago."

Luna opened her mouth to ask her how she could have given up eons ago, when she'd only been in school for seven years, but Spectacles was faster. She shot the girl an equally contemptuous look. "Lisette, I saw you fiddling with that _yesterday_."

Lisette flushed red, two spots of near feverishly bright color on her high cheekbones. Her gaze darted over to Potter. "Charles, defend me!"

"You can defend yourself," snapped Weasley. "Don't drag him into your endless catfight with Sabine."

"Well, I never!" huffed Lisette. She cast a pleading look at Potter, who sighed.

"Look, why don't we all start the D.A.D.A. homework?" he asked, sounding like the only reasonable person in the room. "It's not like we're getting anything done _here_, and Lantern's fanatical about that shield. Besides, you and Sabine can work out your issues by hurling hexes at one another."

Of course. Hurling hexes at each other when angry is _such _a good idea – so much for being reasonable. But Luna couldn't really help her curiosity.

"Which shield?"

He appeared relieved at her question. "_Vindico_. It's Lantern's absolute favorite, and it's also notoriously hard in addition to being her prerequisite to taking N.E.W.T.-level Defense."

"Vindico? It sounds rather familiar – does it have anything to do with swiping? Like this." _Riddle, Riddle, Riddle…_she thought in her head as she slashed her wand down rather ferociously. The name alone gave her enough vicious emotion for a large, crackling sphere to envelope her. Unfortunately, she'd forgotten to move away from the table.

The wood was dented in one side until it looked suspiciously like a badly cooked pancake, and the puzzles had somehow all flown off the surface.

"Oops?" she offered to the silent class.

Weasley and Potter burst out laughing.

"Look – at – that – " Weasley gasped, tearing up with mirth. "You sent splinters straight into the ti – I mean, turnips!"

Luna turned to look. Sure enough, blocks of wood were rising out of two oddly placed spherical vegetables.

"Those," she said primly, "are radishes."

* * *

><p>By the end of the period, Luna, Septimus, and Charles were fairly good friends. The two Gryffindors were by far the most easygoing people that she'd met in this time of stiff nods and courteous bows, and Luna found herself loosening up and even managing to forget about Riddle as they joked, laughed and generally infuriated Sabine and Lisette with their antics.<p>

"Stop that!" shrilled Lisette as Luna conjured another set of yellow canaries.

"Faulkner, I expected better of _you_!" reprimanded Sabine, glaring at her for the dazzling rainbows weaving near the top of the ceiling. She then reluctantly added, "It _was _a brilliant piece of charms work, though."

They spent some time working on Defense, which Luna found to be absurdly easy; perhaps it was simply that many of the spells she had been trained in daily had only just been invented, and not nearly as perfected, or she might just have been overqualified for the class in general after a year of Auror-training directly after the war. Regardless, it was endlessly exciting to be able to help each others on shields and hexes and jinxes again. A pang of nostalgia hit her with the abruptness of a sneeze. Working with Septimus, Charles, Sabine, and even Lisette reminded her of the D.A.

"_Expelliarmus!_"

Her reflexes kicked in at once as she spun and stared at the jet of light flashing at her. Her wand barely flicked up fast enough to cast a Shield Charm before the spell impacted.

"You're _fast_," said Charles Potter in admiration. "I was sure I'd get you that time."

Luna smiled at him. "I try. But you're very quick too – _Locomotor Mortis!_"

He only just managed to duck out of the way of the flying spell and hit his head on a cabinet. Sabine laughed, Septimus snorted, and it was the best two hours Luna had had since eating a sherbet lemon pop with Rolf some thousands of days in the future.

Of course, Lisette had to be the downer. "How rude!"

Septimus rolled his eyes.

"Say, Faulkner, could you get Moon to hit her head like you?" he inquired casually. He leaned in and stage-whispered loudly enough for the whole room to hear, "It'll remove the stick up her ass, too."

Sabine and Lisette both went red, either from the general inappropriateness of the comment (it _was _the '40s) or, especially on Lisette's part, from affronted anger. Her face swelled unpleasantly, but whatever retort she was about to make was lost in the subsequent ringing, and Luna slowly picked her bags up to leave.

It was dinnertime with Riddle.

Her entrance into the Great Hall was quiet, and she felt like tiptoeing. Luna had always been light on her feet. Her steps almost resembled something out of a long-lost ritual.

He sat at the head of the Slytherin table again, holding court. When she approached the table, he flashed her a gleaming white smile, filled with gleaming white teeth. _Sharp _teeth.

A shudder, a rush of fear, and a shot of adrenaline rushed into her system, and she almost grinned back, but she caught herself just in time. Instead, she sat herself as far from him as she could when –

"No, Miss Faulkner, do sit here. We miss your charming company."

His hand snaked out to gesture to an empty chair at his left side. The table was staring silently; Lucretia was watching, a sinister grin playing along her expression, Malfoy looked bored, except for the knowing smirk, and _Lestrange _– dear God, Lestrange was eyeing her with something that twisted his angelic face into something quite demonic. Of all the Death-Eaters-to-be, Lestrange scared her most.

She arranged her face into something that attempted to be relaxed, but was more likely only brittle. _Go, _said Rationality, appearing worried. _If you don't, you'll only be seen as publically challenging his authority, and that cannot turn out well. Not to mention that whomever you end up sitting _with_ becomes a target._

_Pah! _snorted Courage. _If you _do _go, you'll have to contend with his Death Eaters, and be placing yourself in the middle of the enemy. Defy him; he has no control over you._

Ignoring them both, she walked out of the Great Hall. Climbing the staircase to the Head rooms before ducking into her own and locking the door with every charm she knew, she lay down on the bed and fell into a gentle sleep.

* * *

><p>"My Lord," whispered Malfoy, his eyes cast downward in submission as he kneeled at Tom's feet. <em>At his feet.<em> How Tom loved the sound of that phrase, and how he relished the subservience that was given – reluctantly at first, but now with reverence – by his followers, pathetic as they were. His ruby red lips, red as splattered blood, curled in a mocking smile.

"My _friend_. Friends, in fact – dear Antonin, dear Raphael, are you too proud to greet your leader?"

"Of course not," breathed Lestrange, and the aforementioned sank into identical positions to Malfoy. Strands of dark hair were brushing the cold stone floor as the two lowered themselves to the rock. A short thrill of exhilaration rushed through his body. This was how it _should _be. He should rule like the superior being he was, without being challenged. _Ever_. And especially not from a slip of a girl, ditzy and distracted beyond belief.

Just thinking about her made the monster in him roar with rage. He would have to get this over with quickly if he wanted to maintain control.

"I've called the three of you here for a reason," he said coldly, dispassionately, eyeing the prostrate forms on the ground. "Luna Faulkner has been acting rather…_odd_ of late. Her disrespect cannot be ignored. I want her watched at all times, but more than that, I want her provoked at every possible opportunity."

He leaned in, a chilling smirk on his face as his eyes glowed red.

"I want her life to be made a living hell, and if you can't manage that properly between the three of you, I'll make sure your life won't be any better than hers."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Finally, the next update! :) Anyway, I really appreciate feedback - it would mean a lot to me if people could drop by a with a review.

Thanks for reading and (hopefully) reviewing!

-Allarice


	6. Chapter 5

_He leaned in, a chilling smirk on his face as his eyes glowed red._

_"I want her life to be made a living hell, and if you can't manage that properly between the three of you, I'll make sure your life won't be any better than hers."_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 5: Serum<strong>

_Luna had always had the same nightmare since she was nine._

_It shouldn't have been a scary dream. She _knew _she was dreaming, for one; there was also the fact that there was nothing scary in her dream. Nothing to be scared of._

_Because that was what her dream was. Nothing – in it, she was surrounded by filters of gray fog. She could walk forever, and she did, but nothing changed; there was only mist in front of her. No sights, no sounds, no people. _

_Lost and alone._

_Does a scream really happen if no one is there to hear it?_

She woke in the darkness to the sound of footsteps.

They were light, not at all clunky; just listening to their soft rhythm, she could imagine the feline grace that accompanied their owner's movements. Her heartbeat quickened. Would he try to force it open?

She exhaled softly when he passed by without incident, no longer quaking, but the ghosts of chills still played along her rigid spine. She had to get back to her time and away from the Dark Lord for the sake of her sanity. Her fingers fumbled for her Arithmancy book. Perhaps she was no Hermione, but she was a _Ravenclaw_, and she could damn well get back on her own. Slowly, she shifted out of bed, wrapping herself in warm furs before letting a candle spark to life beside her.

Before she knew it, her quill was flying across parchment, scratching out notes and plans and formulas. Desperation lent itself to paper with a fluidity that she'd never experienced before. She lost herself in the cool certainty of number and fact as the night wore on; laws and rules of magic that could not be broken. There wasn't much else to hold onto, after all.

As the dawn approached and the piles of parchment mounted ever higher, Luna thought that she heard singing.

"Luna! Are you there?"

Groggily, she pushed herself up from the stacks that she'd fallen asleep on the prior night. Her face felt funny, almost wet.

"Come in."

A hesitant Cecelia pushed open the door and gasped in horror. "Luna! There's ink all over your face!"

"Is there really?" So _that_ was why her skin was so crusty. She leaned over the bathroom sink and began to wash it off. The cool water was so revitalizing.

Her friend barely looked at the papers sprawled across the floor. "The prefect meeting's in ten minutes. Hurry, you don't want to be late. Do you want me to help with your hair?"

"That's really nice of you, but I think I'll manage." Luna tied it into a loose bun and gave Cecelia a grateful smile before the words finally registered in her brain. "_What?_ A prefect meeting?"

The other rolled her eyes. "It's the first holiday planning meeting. You were looking forward to this all year, remember? Your oh-so-perfect bonding time?"

"Bonding time," Luna echoed blankly, but when Cecelia opened her mouth to explain, she sighed. She really didn't want to know. "I think I need a few minutes – you really don't have to wait. I'd feel terrible if I made you late too."

A relieved look crossed Cecelia's face. "I'll meet you there. It's just that Riddle's pretty big on punctuality, you know? And – I'll get you a glass of water?"

Luna forced a smile. "Thanks. And believe me, I know Riddle likes scheduling." After all, Riddle had given Harry a _time limit _to commit suicide.

Ten minutes later, she crept into the Prefect Room, not too sure of what exactly she was supposed to be doing there. She wouldn't even have _known _about it if not for Cecelia, who was a godsend for telling her that she had to attend and bringing her to the correct location.

A glass was pressed into her hand.

"You look pale, Luna. Drink up."

She didn't resist as the water trickled down her dry throat, and turned her attention the center of the room.

Tom Riddle stood in front of a group of captivated listeners, all but visibly glowing at his speech as he gestured and smiled and _charmed_, acting the part of the perfect gentleman. Her revulsion slowly gave way to a strange sort of admiration. How did he _do _that, concealing the beast, the monstrous being that hid beneath the façade? She made for a seat in the back, wishing to blend in with the crowd before being noticed and watch the Dark Lord at work without being part of his plans.

If only she was so lucky.

"Miss Faulkner!" _he_ said, his verdant eyes lighting up in what everyone else assumed was friendliness as he looked at her. Tingles rang down her spine again. _Green, not red,_ reassured Rationality. "How good of you to rejoin us after your accident. Feeling well?"

"Delightful, thank you," she said, hoping that her reply sounded pleasant and not like the retort it was. How _kind_ of him to inquire.

He smiled at her again as if he'd completely forgotten the events of yesterday. "In fact, you came just in time to discuss what we would do for the annual holiday events."

Holiday events. Of course. He was making her look like a fool – he knew all too well that she had no idea what the event was.

All were waiting for her to speak, she realized, her mouth dry.

She turned to face her adversary, bubbling with a thick, building energy that cut her words into sharp pieces of ceramic, pieces to draw blood with. It frightened her, how fast he could make her revert to her most instinctive. "Why don't we hear what Mr. Riddle has to say first? I'm sure that his ideas are _exemplary_."

His eyes narrowed infinitesimally, but he didn't argue.

"Traditionally, we hold a Halloween celebration and a Yule dance, but I thought this year we could do something a little different." He inclined his head toward Malfoy as he spoke, who smirked knowingly. "Instead of the usual Halloween festival, we could celebrate the holiday the way _wizards _have always celebrated it. A trip into the way of tradition, so to speak."

It was all beginning to sound very ominous to Luna. She didn't like the way he emphasized wizards, and the hint of hidden meaning that infused every word. A million flying Gloompuggers seemed to gather round his head.

"What will we be celebrating?" piped up a short Hufflepuff.

His answering grin was positively wicked.

"Why, Samhain, of course."

The blood drained from her face.

_Samhain_. Of course he would choose that festival_._ It was the day when magic was stronger, wilder, at its most primal. It wasn't dark, not inherently so, as Riddle very well knew. He wasn't a fool; the school would _never _let him organize it if it were corrupted so. But Samhain took a person's true alignment, true _nature_, and amplified it a thousand fold. Daddy and Mother had both loved Samhain while alive, but Luna knew better.

After all, Samhain was the day that had killed Mother.

She shook her head. While she'd reconciled herself to her mother's death long ago, it didn't mean that she _enjoyed _thinking about it. More puzzling was the why – why would he celebrate Samhain? It would only highlight his dark nature.

Except she didn't really want to be there for the festival to find out.

"Why don't we have a pumpkin-festival or a costume ball instead?" she proposed quickly. "I don't think Samhain is really appropriate for the younger years, and the Professors might not let us celebrate such a controversial holiday."

The Slytherins were staring at her, but there were some murmurs of agreement from the prefects of the other houses. Lucretia Black's eyes glittered particularly dangerously. How much had Riddle divulged to his followers?

She was shaken out of her thoughts by Riddle's unsettling politeness as he nodded at her.

"Very good points. However, I have already secured Professor Dippet's permission to hold a celebration, if the prefects so wish, and his assurances that it will be completely safe."

Dippet's brain must have been infested by Cockroach Pixies.

"What are you planning, Riddle?"

His eyes narrowed.

"I'm not sure what you mean, Miss Faulkner."

"What festivities are you planning?" she corrected quickly. She hadn't _meant _to say that aloud.

"Ah. Well, if we all agree, we could hold a dance – " there were immediate excited whispers from the female inhabitants – "and set up a rather naturalistic decoration theme. A bonfire would be necessary, and the younger years could amuse themselves with festival games." He paused to survey the response.

The prefects were all smiling and talking in low voices to their friends and housemates, except for the Slytherins, who sat in rigid composure. Cecelia was staring at her as if she'd lost her mind. Luna frowned. How to salvage the situation? Riddle had sold the idea of Samhain, and sold it well.

She cleared her throat twice, and the chatter subsided. Perhaps Luna Faulkner had been more influential than she'd known.

"Did you know," she stated, "that Samhain is a holiday of rituals that is based on the participation of individuals? Magic is particularly sensitiveat the time. One misspoken spell while celebrating could _kill_. Despite Professor Dippet's assurances of safety, it could never hurt to put up some wards against magical buildup for the festival, could it?"

Riddle finally gave her a full out, venomous stare. Chills rang down her spine again as he bore into her eyes, but she held her Occlumency walls strong. _I'm not so afraid of you that I won't try to thwart you, Riddle, when you jeopardize my safety and the safety of others. _Courage cheered.

He seemed to shake himself out of the eye contact first, as if remembering others were watching, and another sickly smile plastered itself to his face.

"Of course we will put up safeties, Miss Faulkner. Your concern is appreciated. However, so that we don't take up more of the precious weekend, can we conclude this meeting with a decision upon Samhain?"

Not a single voice of dissent rose. The prefects trickled out of the room, congratulating Riddle on the way out –

"Faulkner, a word."

"Yes?" To her surprise, it was Abraxas Malfoy. He was in quiet, arrogant repose, leaning against the doorway; his grey eyes gleamed with shrewd calculation. They were alone in the deserted room. Even Riddle had left.

She had a very bad feeling about this.

"Why are you so keen to oppose Tom?"

Whatever she had expected him to say, that wasn't it. Caught off guard, the first thing she said was, "Is it really so obvious?"

His jaw slackened.

"You're _actively _against him? Faulkner, have you lost your mind?"

The irony of that question was not lost on Luna, still reeling from what she'd let slip. What was wrong with her today?

"I don't believe so," slipped out from her mouth before she could stop it. _Merlin, what was going on?_ She stared at him with a mixture of anger and concern. Her mind was fuzzy, fuzzier than normal, and she could tell right away. "What did you do?"

He smirked at her, his earlier shock forgotten – or hidden. "You're rather sharp. Was that a result of that little fall you had?"

"No," she said without meaning to. Something was definitely wrong. Everything he asked was answered with no mental filter; that was nothing less than dangerous. Her eyes widened. _Veritaserum._ Stupid, arrogant, sneaky _jerk_. "Can I tell you a secret?"

He leaned in eagerly. Steeling herself, Luna grabbed his shoulders and French-kissed Abraxas Malfoy.

It wasn't particularly unpleasant, to her surprise, though a little revolting to stick her tongue aggressively in his mouth. His lips were warm and soft, like caterpillar skin. And, just as shockingly, he didn't immediately pull away.

She did.

_Ew_, grumbled Rationality. _He probably had herpes._

Taking advantage of the fact that Malfoy was stunned beyond belief, Luna snapped quickly, "Who gave me the potion?"

"Cecelia – "

"Why?"

"Riddle ordered - "

Luna ran off while he was talking, having gotten all the answers she needed. There was no need to tempt fate by staying lest _he _managed to question her. But what stung wasn't that she'd almost been revealed. It prickled that Cecelia, whom she'd trusted, whom she'd believed was a friend, had been one to do it. _That _was what stung, and she didn't like it one bit.

Her vision blurred a little, so she sped up, heading straight for her room –

"Normally I'd assume it was your time of the month and just walk by, but this is the second time I've caught you crying in three days – what on _earth _is your problem, Faulkner?

Luna looked up and caught a flash of russet hair. Her jaw dropped in surprise, and a torrent of words flew out.

"Malfoy got Cecelia to slip me a potion, I'm utterly alone with no one to trust, and Riddle's after my blood. What _isn't _a problem?"

Horrified, she clapped her hands over her mouth. The Veritaserum hadn't faded yet – dear Lord, it wouldn't for at least another few minutes, if what she'd remembered from Potions was correct. She didn't know the dosage. If they'd given her more than three drops, she'd be dead. But it had to had been enough to linger on her tongue while she argued with Riddle.

Three drops, then – three drops, ten minutes left.

The boy in front of her's eyes widened ever so slightly, but he shook it off his surprise with the ease of a platypus shaking itself dry. "Riddle after _your _blood? What a calamity. Did he finally get sick of you following him around?"

"No, of course not – _what_?"

He rolled his eyes. "You're not known for your subtlety. And what did Cecelia give you today? An aging potion? I haven't seen you this non-bratty since – "

"Veritaserum." Merlin, how would she stop the spell?

"Repeat that?"

"Veritaserum – _Muffliato!_"

He opened his mouth, probably to demand what she'd done from the redness of his cheeks. She smiled apologetically.

"Sorry, the Mifflers are buzzing really loudly. I'm afraid I can't hear you."

And she skipped away.

* * *

><p>Luna had never liked Arithmancy during her tenure at Hogwarts, not until her final year. By that time, she'd lost her anchors.<p>

By that time, she couldn't see them anymore.

The Crunkle-horned Snorkacks had disappeared, as had the Nargles, as had the Moon Frogs, who used to float and croak and comfort her late at night. The Raspberry Fairies never made another appearance, and the Blueberries never smiled again. Luna mourned them. How many times had she cried late at night, wishing for them to come back?

She'd called and called, but they never did responded, and one especially melancholy day, she simply gave up. She let them go. It didn't matter how hollow she felt, because they'd weren't there either way.

Then, when she looked back at the subject halfway through the first semester, she'd immediately loved it. She'd breathed in it, heart, mind, and soul. Facts would never be as dear to her as they were to Hermione, but they were something, something to clutch in the endless storm that kept her awake and tossing at night.

And now, it had become her key to going home. The only way she could have gotten here was magic. Logically, it should be able to take her back, if she could find the counter –

_What are you thinking? _interrupted her incredulous Imagination. _You sound like Hermione. It's fate that brought you here, and you know it._

_Fate is rubbish_, snapped Rationality. _We'd never get anything done if we didn't work for ourselves._

_Rubbish? You're onion-flavored, sauce spiked, bug-antennae and dragon feathers covered rubbish!_

A pause. _Dragons don't have feathers._

_Says you_.

"Luna Faulkner! I've been calling your name for the last five minutes!"

The world spun back into focus. Squinting a bit, she caught sight of a petite, stern woman with thick gray hair and extremely thin lips.

"Have you really? I suppose I got lost in the smell of chalk for a moment there. It's really quite addictive, you know, Professor – "

The woman's mouth narrowed into a straight line. "Just because you hit your head does not entitle you to foolery in my class, Miss Faulkner. That would be a point from Slytherin, and another for not being able to answer the question."

"Could you repeat it?" She liked questions. They were so broad and limitless and pretty.

"What are five uses of Randall's Third Law?"

Oh, this one was easy.

"Reducing fractorial-numerals, translation of Runes, the fifteenth component of blood for use in healing spells, correlation between minerals, specifically iron and zinc in alchemy, and the flow of propulsion in air-matter related charms."

The rest of the class stared, but a faint smile could be seen on Professor Vendal's plain face.

"See me after class, Miss Faulkner."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Long wait for a not-so-great chapter, I know. :( Sorry this took so long to update - school is awful. Again, thanks to readers and especially reviewers. :) Reviews are what make me continue writing.

MaxRide05: Yes, she is. :) I'm not sure I want to write that part, though - it'll be tough to connect the stories.


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6: Ditties**

"Your mother would be proud."

She met her professor's steel grey eyes. "I'm afraid I don't understand what you mean, Professor."

A fond smile drifted over the Arithmancy teacher's face, and her gaze misted over, glistening with – were those tears? "She was one of the youngest Masters to have ever lived, I believe."

_Was. _So it seemed that Luna Faulkner's mother was gone too, in this strange time. Despite never meeting the woman in question, her eyes fogged up, a white haze covering everything in sight.

"She was brilliant," she said softly. Brilliance, a trait treasured by Ravenclaws and not so much by the others. What would she give to be a Ravenclaw again? No matter that they'd never been so very friendly to her. The blue and gold plush was home.

"We were very good friends," the professor said abruptly, shaking her out of her daze. "I should have asked you before, but until today, you never showed any aptitude for the subject – "

_Oops_. Rationality rolled his eyes.

"I've been studying in my sleep. The Dream-makers are very helpful," Luna hastily explained, nodding emphatically to prove her point. A faint, amused crease deepened between Vendal's brows.

"Dream-makers. I'll have to find a few of those to help those two hooligans pass my class."

"Hooligans?"

"Weasley and Potter. I swear I've never encountered a more hopeless pair in all my years of teaching. It's beyond me how they managed to pass their O.W.L.S."

"Are they really _that _bad?"

"Without a doubt," shuddered the older woman. Luna had to bite back a giggle at her all too genuine horror. "Regardless, I was wondering if you'd be interested in joining my Spell Creation class. It's rather informal, and I don't grade or anything like that, if you're worried, but I thought you might find it interesting – "

"I would love to."

"Wonderful," the professor beamed, her slightly wrinkled cheeks enlarged by her wide smile. "I'll see you at four tomorrow, then?"

"Of course. Thank you."

She stepped out. Spell Creation was _exactly _what she needed to fashion the magic that would take her hurtling through time and back home. In fact –

" – the way she dresses. I swear there were bottle caps in her necklace!"

" – rude, and not the brightest bulb in the box. And she's always following him. 'Tom, can I get you anything?' 'Please, help me with my homework, Tom!'"

"She kissed Abraxas Malfoy, did you hear? She – "

Luna flinched at the words. How did they find out? And why did they even care? It wasn't any of their business, and even if it were, he'd drugged her first!

They huddled, talking excitedly and giggling every few seconds, cheeks flushed with something that she couldn't ever remember feeling. For some reason, Luna felt a slow but fiery heat rising from the pit of her stomach. It'd been so long since her cheeks flamed red, her heart rate sped, and her hands shook so. It'd been so long since she'd been alone.

_Alone_.

With that, the heat vanished, and she slumped against the wall, her eyes half-closed, lost in thought.

"Tut, tut."

The sheer derision in that voice made her snap her eyes open and then narrow into a glare when she saw who it was.

"Riddle."

"Someone is tired today," he said coolly, his viridian eyes never leaving hers. "What's wrong, Miss Faulkner? Too many – ah – _bottle caps_?"

"Too many Pronghorned Slugs, actually." The words slid out between her clenched teach with a vengeance. "They're everywhere these days, you know, and have a dreadful tendency to appear in the strangest places in _addition _to being slimy."

His hand twitched before stilling, as if he'd thought better of the action. "Pronghorned Slugs. I don't believe I've ever heard of them, but I believe _Miss Avery _is the Care of Magical Creatures expert, not I."

Luna's knuckles whitened at the mention of Cecelia. "I wouldn't know, would I?" she hissed, barely restraining herself from casting the first curse.

His mouth twisted into a satisfied smile. "You wouldn't."

In smooth, synchronized fashion, almost as if they'd choreographed their movements, their wands rose at the same time. She was just a hair faster. "_Locomotor Mortis!"_

"_Protego!_" A shimmering silver shield rose. "_Appolen – "_

"What is going on here?"

_Busted_.

Albus Dumbledore's baby blues were staring right at her, and there was no twinkle in them whatsoever. Luna swallowed hard. She tried to say something, but nothing came out of her mouth. Riddle remained absolutely silent beside her, his tall, lanky frame simmering and taut with something that she could not interpret as anything other than black rage.

"Dueling in the halls is forbidden for a reason. My office, if you will."

Her feet trudged along, carrying her down the hall despite her reluctance. The second she stepped in, Dumbledore began to speak.

"You are the Heads of the student body. It is your duty to provide an example to the rest of the school through diplomacy, tact, and good judgment. What you just did was unacceptable. Do not think I haven't noticed your distaste for one another, Miss Faulkner, Mr. Riddle. Whatever was done to warrant that distaste is a moot point. The Head Boy and Girl must get along."

That was a remarkably short-winded speech considering who was delivering it. She was absolutely grateful.

"As punishment," he continued, "the two of you will be assigned as each others' partners, for _every _activity in _every _class, for the remainder of the term."

"No."

The look on the Transfiguration Master's face was priceless. "Excuse me?"

_Now _she'd done it.

"I confess to having an allergy that happens to be especially prominent around Mr. Riddle. It's absolutely _terrible_. I seem to have no impulse control around him, and instead, I gain a terrible headache."

Instinct guffawed, a deep booming laugh, and a twinkle appeared again in Dumbledore's eyes. He appeared to be struggling not to laugh. Luna could feel murderous fury radiating off the body next to her, but only fury. Riddle was keeping his magic (and tongue) in check around Dumbledore. _Good_.

"Regardless, my decision stands." The Deputy Headmaster had managed to swallow his mirth enough to deliver the line in a serious manner, to her chagrin. She caught a glimpse of Riddle's smug smile in the corner of her eye before it vanished.

"I thought punishments were supposed to make one miserable, but he's happy," she observed.

"Punishments are supposed to improve oneself," corrected Dumbledore. Oh, Luna knew it was wrong of her to think so, but sometimes, she really wanted to wipe that all-knowing smile off her favorite professor's face. "Now, Miss Faulkner, would you mind terribly if I decided to have a private conversation with Mr. Riddle before addressing my concerns to you?"

She left without protest, and sat outside the door, humming to herself – and immediately spotted Filch dragging two wincing seventh years by the ear and dropping them against the wall. It was an absurd sight: the rotund, balding man, who in this time also appeared in dire need of a good trip to the shower, preferably with Bat Face Cuphea mixed into the soap, hoisting a lean, somewhat handsome seventeen-year-old on each arm. She laughed aloud at their plight as they landed on top of each other in a tangle of limbs.

"You look like wrestling apes," she observed, not moving even when she was smacked in the arm as they tried to remove themselves from each other. Weasley shot her a sour glare.

"Want to help instead of laughing, Faulkner?"

Luna smiled. "Not especially, but…for the sake of our friendship, I'll risk my life and get a bit closer."

She leaned in, carefully avoiding thrashing fists and feet, and waved her wand. The duo flew apart into opposing walls. As Charles was closer to Luna's side, he didn't gain much momentum before hitting stone, but Septimus was not as lucky.

"_Ow_," he moaned.

She ignored him and turned to Charles. "So, what did you do to end up here?"

He blushed bright red. "Er – um – ah – "

"Just say it, mate," Septimus said crossly, still rubbing his head. "You doused Slughorn with a love potion."

"It was an accident! And it was _your _idea."

"Was not!"

"Was too!"

"Goodness," interrupted Luna, thoroughly amused by now, "Slughorn's in love with you?"

Charles Potter's eyes widened in absolute horror. "Of course not! He's in love with Sabine."

Septimus choked on air. "It was _Sabine's_ hair in that potion? You said it was Mrs. Norris's!"

"I – "

"You – "

"Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, what are you doing here?"

"_Shit_," chorused the boys, turning identical shades of red to match Septimus's hair. Wrapped up in their quarrel, they'd forgotten to make a break for it as soon as Filch left.

"Language," Dumbledore reprimanded mildly, glancing over their glum expressions. "I suppose that I'm done with Mr. Riddle at any rate; the two of you may wait out here while I speak to Miss Faulkner."

Minimort all but stalked out at the obvious dismissal. His flat gaze met Luna's squarely, and she forgot to breathe.

She was drowning in them. Drowning in his cold green eyes. She was likely catching pneumonia even as she sank further and further in –

"_Tom_," said Dumbledore's distant voice. He sounded distinctly angry, angrier Luna had ever heard him, so angry that she could hear Fawkes screeching in her ears. The connection was broken.

There was a long moment of silence.

"I did nothing, sir."

_Liar_. She didn't believe him, and it was clear from the severity in Professor Dumbledore's eyes that he didn't trust a word the Head Boy said either. Septimus and Charles simply looked bewildered at the exchange.

Dumbledore's icy eyes met Tom's, and everything spiraled out of control. A wave of malice exploded from Tom's skin, as if he could not control himself any longer. The light was quick to react. They clashed, a silent battle of wills, of magic, of power.

Luna had no desire to be a part of it, so she darted away from the office, ignoring the shouts from behind her.

* * *

><p>She found herself on the hilltop again, looking over the lake. The bitter wind, relentless in late September, lent her clarity of thought she would never have thought to otherwise possess. Even the height of the cliff and the dastardly drop to the ground breathed exhilaration into her veins. There was nothing like the cold against one's cheeks and the sun streaming down to warm them; the chill and the sunshine constantly at play.<p>

She was caught between self chastisement and bewilderment. It wasn't so much _what was I thinking? _as _what will I do now?_ He was out to get her. There was no way he'd let up after this. But would he have before? He was dangerous, paranoid; she had appeared a spy, or at the very least, a petty thief. The trap had been spun by Fate.

Her thoughts were rudely interrupted by a familiar cutting voice.

"What are you doing here?"

"Oh, it's you," she said, seeing the bright red hair. "Why shouldn't I be here?"

He didn't say anything to that.

They sat in a relatively comfortable silence, despite his obvious antipathy. It was obvious that he was deep in thought. Luna sighed, unable to regain her prior clarity of mind; instead, she chose to watch the sun set. Its rays lowered slowly, streaking red throughout the horizon, until it had touched the ground in some enchanted place, and she wanted to go there so very, very badly that she leaned forward and whispered a wish that the fairies would take her there.

"You're different."

It was an abrupt, quiet observation, but spoken with a kind of thrumming energy.

"Maybe," she allowed. He turned to face her, and for the first time, there was a ghost of a smile on his lips. His eyes sparkled with something that wasn't exactly friendly, but not angry either.

"You can see it now, can't you? I used to think that trying to teach you to see was the worst mistake of my life, but – it's not like that anymore. You learned it on your own."

_A foggy inn, more mist than any summer day should possess. Smiles, laughing, and something shimmering, and passionate, boiling just beneath the surface. _

"_Do you hear it? Can you see? Can you _feel _it?"_

_He was younger, more youthful than before with his cheerful eyes and excited flush. Most remarkably was that Luna could feel magic rolling off him. Not the dark, rolling power of the Dark Lord, or the emotional call of phoenix song, but a magic old and untamed. _

She felt it now.

A siren call, the call of the Fae, it rushed towards her over hill and dale. It might have been just her imagination, but the thick grass carpeting rustled in some hurricane, and the clouds drifted faster than possible high above. A few birds chirped; above all, the wind roared.

The boy – man – beside her's eyes were full of rapturous wonder, a kind of wild excitement glimmering in his gaze. Luna noticed for the first time that the magic wasn't _his._ It was merely as if he was the candle that drew all moths; the music gathered around him in a caressing cocoon. Wrapping, twisting, protecting, but not his.

"What _is_ it?" she asked, but halfway through the sentence, he made an urgent shushing motion.

"_Listen_."

So she listened, and so it came.

It was beautiful. That was the only way to really describe it, beautiful; it wasn't dark or light, merely ancient with all the trappings of a spirit forgotten. It reminded Luna of days when she believed in fairies, of times when Daddy and she ran to pick Moon Flowers, of actions and feelings and a sense of _wonder _long lost. It climbed up her arms and legs like vines. Lovely vines, glowing bright in her vision with flowers blooming into existence every so often. The sheer _power _coursed through her veins, her blood, bubbling and growing and expanding for what seemed to be forever.

But as the sky grew dark, the magic disappeared quickly as it came.

Luna felt drained, empty. She sang a ditty to make sure her voice could finally be heard above the roar of rustling leaves. "What was that?"

He shrugged. "I guess you can call it wild magic if you want."

"What do _you _call it?"

For a second, the redhead seemed taken aback. "I don't call it anything, not really. It's not like I talk about it all the time."

She frowned. "Aren't you supposed to hate me?"

"I did," he said slowly. "But like I said, you're different."

Goosebumps formed on her flesh. Was she really that obvious?

"What's your name?" she asked to distract herself.

He grinned at her. "Nigel Greengrass, at your service."

_Greengrass._ Redhead.

_Irony._

* * *

><p><em><em>**A/N: **A very short chapter that, more likely than not, will be combined with another at some point. But I realized that it's been forever since I updated, and...I probably should at least post something to let everyone know I'm still alive, despite being buried in schoolwork.

Regarding Luna's oddness, she isn't quite as odd as she used to be. She still sees the world a little differently from most, but she grew up over the years as well and is a little jaded thanks to some disillusionment, particularly regarding her father. In this story, Luna is nineteen, a little over a year (just a little) older than Tom; she also has the advantage of a bit of Auror training that will, hopefully, be somewhat explained in later chapters, the D.A., and war-time survival.

In case anyone is wondering, this story basically follows canon through DH. Harry and Ginny and Ron and Hermionie were basically at what you'd expect them to be at in their lives according to the epilogue in the world Luna left behind. Luna and Ginny are very good friends, as well as Luna and Harry, likely why Lily Luna Potter is named after Luna. :)

hateme101: Luna will have some very good friends eventually, don't worry. :) I intend for her to be a balanced individual.

jaet: Thanks so much! I hope I can keep improving my writing skills (and the fic).

MaxRide05: (nod) It would mean I'd have to connect the two timelines at some point, and I don't know if I ever intend on doing that.

Gladioli: Thanks for the review!

forbiddenluv: Pssht, those Malfoys.

HeyEugene: I'm trying my best to make the fic unique, to the extent I've been refraining from so much as looking at other Luna/Tom stories, although I believe they do exist. Lots of plot bunnies, but trying to make the plot not too convoluted at the moment. :)

Wolfsbane-Nin: They'll come back. At some point.


	8. Chapter 7

_"What's your name?" she asked to distract herself._

_He grinned at her. "Nigel Greengrass, at your service."_

_Greengrass. Redhead._

_Irony._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 7: Classes<strong>_  
><em>

She was sitting next to him; her chair angled away, but they were still close enough for her teeth to be chattering. _Click click click click click click –_

CLACK.

She jumped as he shifted position, visibly jumped to the quizzical stares of her classmates, before bemoaning her reaction as she realized that he hadn't done anything at all. _Stupid_, hissed Rationality. _Coward_, hissed Imagination. Courage was nowhere to be found.

_Think about something else. Anything else_.

She could not. There was a sort of shadow oozing from him, cloying and stifling, filling her every pore, suffocating her. And – it wasn't altogether unpleasant, even as it rubbed itself against her delicate skin, purring in satisfaction like a cat –

"The annual artifact creation contest is approaching," Dumbledore cut through, his voice layered with something hard and sharp and reassuring as he looked directly at her, meeting her eyes. Her lips thinned. She hadn't quite forgiven him for putting her through this farce, a farce that Riddle was only too happy to take part in. Didn't he realize that _she_ was the only one being punished here?

An excited murmur rose in the class. The Ravenclaws were in all their glory, muttering and whispering and glowing, frantically flipping through textbooks, silently huddling into groups.

"For those who do not know, the A.C.C. is a chance for seventh years to showcase their skills, particularly to potential employers who will be at the career fair directly before the holidays. It is also something of an academic challenge. The groups will be – "

_Of course_. No small amount of dread rose in Luna's throat. He wouldn't – he couldn't –

"Ackerly and Crabbe, Avery and Crabbe, Black and Goyle, Dolohov and Lestrange, Faulkner and Riddle – "

They couldn't make her; she'd sooner fail the project in its entirety than work with him. She jumped again as his arm twitched for his pencil.

It was enough to make him glare at her out of the corner of his dark eyes.

"Get a grip_, _Faulkner," he hissed, his fingers clenching and his lips twisting with contempt. _Weak_, he seemed to taunt her. _Weak, useless, cowardly –_

"Oh, stuff it." Her voice was trembling still, but she was proud of herself for remaining in control. "You're going to break your quill if you don't loosen up, and then everyone will think you're infested with Wrackspurts."

"With _what_?" Riddle's handsome face was incredulous.

"Wrackspurts," Luna repeated coolly. "They make your head go all fuzzy, you know. In Riddle terminology, I suppose they're 'the physical manifestation of insanity.'"

His eyes narrowed into slits. "You would possess some expertise on the subject, then."

Lord Voldemort was calling her insane. Voldemort, king of all madmen, _Voldemort_, who'd shed any vestiges of humanity half a century later. A strange giggle bubbled up in her throat.

"All the best people do," she whispered with a dazzling smile, a smile that would have made other people draw in a breath from the pure brilliance of it. To her amazement, Riddle smiled politely back. What was going on?

Looking around the room, she found every eye was upon them.

_No wonder he was being civil, the two-faced snake._

"Miss Faulkner, Mr. Riddle, I'm sure whatever you are discussing can wait until the end of class."

She froze. Dumbledore! What kind of image was she presenting, being loud and obnoxious and awful in class, talking all the time, fighting with Riddle – it was all Riddle's fault. That's what it was. Riddle's fault. If he wasn't so perfectly horrid, nothing would ever have happened. And she wouldn't be here. It was his stupid, awful, terrible diary that had brought her, anyways. Stupid, stupid, Riddle. Awful brat. Murderous bastard. Damned –

Luna kept this train of thought running for the next hour until the bell finally rang. She rose, grabbing her books.

"Faulkner, can I have a word?"

She didn't like the idea of not being able to see him, so she turned, making sure her back faced the wall while snapping, "What do you want?"

SMASH.

In her haste, she'd knocked over her ink pot. Her cheeks flamed as she saw the growing black stain on his pristine robes. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to - "

Instead of the rage she'd expected, there was absolute silence. Riddle's eyes were so wide that, if it were anyone else, she would have laughed. His entire face was stunned, and his mouth was working slowly, as if his muscles weren't quite responding. "You spilled ink on me."

_What a pansy_, observed Courage with a disdainful sniff.

"I'm terribly sorry." She bit her lip to hide a chuckle – it really was too much. The sheer indignity in his voice made her want to laugh in spite of herself.

His lip curled disbelievingly. "You are an atrocious liar _and_ unbearably clumsy. Have you no redeeming qualities?"

Her eyebrows flew up. The dry, calm retort was not at all what she expected from him, and, God help her, she could no longer suppress the twitching at the corners of her mouth. "Does infuriating you count as a redeeming quality?"

She thought she saw his jaw clench ever so slightly, but the rest of his face remained cold. "No. And _before _you darkened the color of my shirt, I was going to say today at seven would be an appropriate time to discuss projects in our common room. Now, Miss Faulkner, would you consent to walking with me for a moment?"

"I – "

"Only to your next class," he said, a meant-to-be-charming-but-honestly-disturbing smile appearing on his face as he waved his wand, and ink vanished. "I missed your company; things haven't been quite right between us since you had that unfortunate accident."

"Things were _ever _right between us?" His stare was making her nervous, so she abruptly changed the subject. "You have a very pretty face, but please stop looking at me like you want to eat me. It's bad manners."

She had him this time. His jaw flat out dropped. And then, to her surprise, he laughed.

Not a nice laugh, like Rolf's, soft and smooth as butter. It was a very Voldemort-y laugh, all high cackles and creepy dementia. She could have sworn his eyes were redder than before. A chill passed down her spine.

They were in the halls, alone. She was alone with the Dark Lord.

Her hand made for her wand.

"Scared?" he laughed mockingly, noticing the movement. "I won't bite. We're walking in broad daylight."

"In a deserted hallway." She drew it anyway, gripping it tightly, muscles tense. "What do you want from me, anyway?"

The smile dropped from his face, leaving it stark and cold. Strangely, Luna felt a little better, a little…safer. Perhaps the coldness was more familiar. Perhaps it was that the Voldemort of her time had never seen the need to pretend he was anything more or less than what he was.

"What were you doing with my diary? Why are you so afraid?"

He might have been the Dark Lord, but he had the most one-track mind she'd ever seen.

"Why don't you figure it out?"

Silence. She began to feel queasy – queasier than she already was, and to keep from squirming, blurted out, "Stop frowning." He didn't respond, so she decided to elaborate. "Aren't you afraid of ruining your image?"

He didn't say anything. After another minute of uncomfortable quiet, she chanced a look at his eyes. To her surprise, there was something in them – pure, viridian green again – that spoke of –

Amusement?

It couldn't be. Trick of the light; that was all.

When she dared to peek again, that dancing, laughing spark was no longer there, and for some strange, strange reason, there was a hollow feeling at the bottom of her stomach as his face blanked of all emotion.

"My image? What would that be?"

"You know," she said, waving her hand at him, "the whole aloof, self-composed Slytherin thing."

Riddle's face barely changed, but this time, Luna could swear his lips turned up slightly at the corners before he settled them into a hard, disapproving line. "Your complete disrespect, Faulkner, is beginning to cross boundaries."

Her eyebrows arched. The nervousness fluttering in her chest had turned into something heady, exciting, and she was only slightly afraid as she looked him in the eye. Never before had the Dark Lord's age been more apparent: he was seventeen and appeared no older, with a smooth, boyish face and patrician features. Younger than she.

"Only beginning?"

She wondered how long he'd let her get away with her "disrespect."

"You need to be reminded of your place." There was a dangerous intensity in his voice this time, flames reaching out to burn her. Well, her question was answered. Not long at all.

If she was as composed as Neville, a cool retort would drop from her lips. If she was fiery like Ginny, pure vitriol would be flying from her throat in the form of words. And if she was brave as Harry, she would have tried to curse him right then and there.

But she was Luna, little Ravenclaw Luna, alone and without her friends. Her shoulders trembled just a bit as she leaned against Courage for support. "Nifflers prefer those who treat them as friends to those who treat them as servants."

Riddle stopped in shock before disgust made itself apparent on his angular face.

"The sheer naiveté you are confessing to is unbelievable. You are a walking oxymoron, Faulkner: how _have _you survived in Slytherin all these years?"

She ignored his jab, choosing to rejoice in favor of his admittance. Somehow, she'd convinced him she really was Luna Faulkner. Or he was just playing mind games.

_That _made her eyes widen in sudden fear.

"Something wrong?" He was back to mocking, she noticed as she tried to quell her shivers. Maybe it wasn't a mind game after all.

"No. I'm quite alright." Her eyes lit up, settling on the door. "We're here! If you'll excuse me for a second – Nigel! How are you?"

Startled, the lanky boy (her escape route) jumped before his face crinkled into a smile.

"Hey, Luna. Did Vendal finally recruit you?"

"Yesterday," she said, wishing she could turn her back in Riddle, but not being able to see him only made her feel exposed. "I'm quite glad she did; the class sounds very interesting."

"It is," he agreed. "Want to grab the desks by the window?"

Riddle's eyes sparked with irritation.

"I'd love to."

As she made her way toward the sunlight suffusing the classroom, a head of curly brown hair and warm gray eyes approached. Luna stiffened.

"I haven't seen you for a while," Cecelia said with a friendly smile, but this time, now that Luna knew what she was looking for, she could see the harder lines at the corners of the other girl's mouth. "How is _Potions_ going for you? It's odd not having you as my partner."

Luna did her best to keep her face blank.

"Is that supposed to mean something?"

Cecelia giggled. "Never – Oh, Nigel! It's so wonderful to see you!"

Nigel's smile became strained, as if his face was on the verge of breaking. "Likewise, Miss Avery. How has your day been?"

More giggles.

"Delightful. Absolutely delightful. Mother sent me chocolates for the weekend, as she misses me, and sent some for you as well. You look so handsome today. The hair – it stands out perfectly against that shade of blue. I really do wish you'd wear it more often; it's my absolute favorite color, and – "

Seeing cracks beginning to split in her new friend's mask of cordiality, Luna hastened to save him. "The green suits you, Cecelia."

Gray eyes squinted at her.

"Is that supposed to mean something?"

Luna giggled in just the manner Cecelia had when posed with the same question. "Never."

Spell Creation turned out to be a wonderful mix of theory and application, hard enough so that even Luna found herself challenged. Mediocre in Charms and Herbology, awful with Potions, Astronomy, and History, and only slightly better than the average 'dunderhead' in Transfiguration and D.A.D.A., Luna's crowing achievements had always been in the realms of Ancient Runes, Care of Magical Creatures, and more recently, Arithmancy.

_Just like your mother_, she remembered Daddy saying when he saw her O.W.L.S.

She refused to let her eyes tear up that he'd never had a chance to see her even more spectacular N.E.W.T.S.

"So if you square the equation for the thermal heating– "

She jerked herself out of regrets. To her chagrin, the scribbles on Nigel's paper were nearly illegible.

"You'd have to wrap in a combination of flicks to balance the spell and an 'o' sound at the end to stabilize the incantation. It's also not very efficient. The amount of wand movements and the disparity between energy input and output would make it easier to perform the Warming Charm multiple times instead."

He frowned. "Wouldn't an odd number of vowels unbalance the conversion?"

"That's the key, I think, for this variation. The unbalance is what dulls the temperature to a point where it's possible to create a level of precision otherwise unachievable."

"That goes against every piece of theory I've ever been taught."

She ignored him, picking her wand up and visualizing the result and clearly voicing the incantation in her head –

The glass marble glowed precisely the right shade of green.

"Told you so," she said in satisfaction, holding the marble out to him. He spluttered.

"Clever."

The orb dropped to the ground and shattered.

"Riddle!" Luna exclaimed, dropping down hastily to pick up the pieces of jagged glass, not noticing the blood beginning to run from her palms as she gripped the shards too tightly. "What are you doing here?"

He ignored her reaction. "What if the wand movement is removed entirely? Instead, the thermal spell should be reduced, and replaced with direct energy transference. Removing the conduit would only lead to _more _precision by taking away outside interference. All that would have to be done is – "

"The focus of the spell would have to be moved," she finished absently, lost in the possibilities. "That's _brilliant_ –" She suddenly remembered who she was speaking to. A mortified blush crept over her cheeks as well as a pang of guilt, spreading to the roots of her hair. The phrase _fraternizing with the enemy _jumped to the front of her mind.

"It is, isn't it?" agreed Riddle blandly. A fresh wave of irritation swept over Luna, and she was almost relieved at its presence. For a terrifying moment there, she'd been so caught up in _finally having someone who understood _that she'd forgotten exactly _who _it was who understood.

_Conceited prick_, agreed Instinct with a toss of her rainbow colored mane. Luna giggled.

Her face flamed again when she realized Nigel was looking inquisitively between her and Riddle. "Something funny?"

Before she could apologize, Riddle cut in.

"No."

Her eyes widened. That remark had been so short that it was almost rude, uncharacteristically so for the oh-so-perfect 'golden boy' of Hogwarts. Polite for Voldemort, perhaps, but Riddle hadn't quite descended to the same level of madness.

_Keep telling yourself that_.

She banished Rationality from her mind for the snarky remark and fixed Nigel with a warm, absent smile, purposefully turning her back on Riddle. "Want to move on to the next exercise?"

"Not especially," Nigel said lightly. Seeing her face fall, he quickly backpedaled, "Look, Luna, it's not that I don't want spend time you, but it's obvious I'm holding you back. Maybe you should try working with Riddle? He seems more up to your level of mental acumen."

_Work with Riddle_?

"I – really – er – " she sputtered.

Riddle smiled pleasantly, his charming persona back in place after the momentary lapse. "I would be delighted to have Miss Faulkner as a partner."

Said Miss Faulkner was still trying to think of a valid excuse and coming up with none. "I really must insist – "

"Eliminate the Corinthian steps."

"What?"

"Eliminate the Corinthian steps from your spell," he repeated impatiently. Her cheeks flushed with indignation as she realized he was suggesting one of the most basic rules of Arithmancy to her.

"_That _would cause internal collapse," she protested. "You're giving it a new focus, so the Corinthian can't be eliminated until there's some sort of equalizing factor. The numbers don't cancel out correctly."

"Don't they?"

"Try it."

He shot her an insulted look. "I did. What kind of fool do you take me for?"

"The most foolish one." _He might be brilliant, but he's an idiot_, remarked Rationality. Luna was inclined to agree. After all, only the King of Fools would leap at the opportunity tear his own soul into shreds. Even the thought made her shudder. The soul was a wondrous, fragile thing – the thought that anyone would willingly maim it –

Almost unconsciously, she took a step away from Riddle, her arms hugging her middle.

"I – I don't feel well. I think I need to lie down for a moment," she lied, moving away. Something flashed in his eyes for the shortest, most infinitesimal second.

"You were fine a moment before."

She froze like a rabbit in headlights.

"I'm not anymore," she blustered, scrambling for something to say. She was – she was losing sight of her goals. She had to get back home. _Home, home, home_, she chanted quietly, and Compassion and Instinct and Rationality and Courage joined her. Her back straightened. "I'm just tired."

He jerked slightly, so slightly that Luna would have missed it if not for her war-honed reflexes. Had he intended to follow her? No, that was silly.

"Seven," he said crisply, softly, but the lack of volume didn't disguise the threat – if she didn't show up, something unpleasant would occur. She looked up. His eyes were undeniably tinged with flecks of red.

For a fleeting second, she was tempted to turn on her heel and stalk out. But she didn't. She was no Gryffindor, no Ginny. And the truth of the matter was that the project had to be done.

"Seven," she agreed quietly, and left.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: ****It feels like forever since my last update...again, my apologies! Busy school year. Anyway, I was a little disappointed with the number of reviews for the last chapter; many thanks to everyone who did review. Again, I really appreciate a minute of your time spent with a review. Constructive criticism is welcome. **

**That said, thanks for reading!**

**-Allarice**


	9. Chapter 8

_"Seven," he said crisply, softly, but the lack of volume didn't disguise the threat – if she didn't show up, something unpleasant would occur. She looked up. His eyes were undeniably tinged with flecks of red._

_For a fleeting second, she was tempted to turn on her heel and stalk out. But she didn't. She was no Gryffindor, no Ginny. And the truth of the matter was that the project had to be done._

_"Seven," she agreed quietly, and left._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 8: Sevens<strong>

"Faulkner! You'll never guess what we did!" he gasped excitedly, his cheeks flushed red, panting from effort. Luna was standing outside the tattered portrait of Queen Mauve (since she lived before the founding of Hogwarts, it was a miracle the painting even still existed) after a brisk walk that left her eyes sparkling and cheeks pink.

"You painted Slughorn's classroom pink?" she suggested, trying to contain her amusement.

He frowned slightly. "No, but I'll take that under consideration – "

"_Weasley!_" came a most unfeminine screech. "What did you _do_ to Slughorn?"

The boy's eyes widened comically as he began backing away. "It was Charles, I swear! Sabine, no, don't kill me, I still have half the rules at Hogwarts to break!"

"You're an awful, horrible, immature _prat_!"

Luna watched the exchange with mild interest. "Is this about the love potion?"

Septimus stopped running to mouth something like "_thhh, the'll rill me_," while Sabine stopped chasing the former to stare at her. "A love potion?"

She nodded gravely. "Love potions are powerful, powerful things, you know. I remember a story a friend told me – once upon a time, a witch gave a Muggle man a love potion so he'd stay with her. When she stopped, needless to say, he left, and their child became the most terrifying Dark Lord of the century."

Septimus and Sabine appeared at a loss as for whether she was being serious.

"That's ridiculous," Sabine began at last, "I can't imagine – "

Luna wasn't listening.

Behind Sabine stood Tom Riddle, a curiously blank expression on his admittedly handsome face. He moved slowly, stiltedly towards her, barely retaining any of the grace that usually lined his movements, and Luna found herself strangely comforted by its disappearance despite the worry hidden behind her equally blank visage. How much had he heard? How much did he recognize?

"It's seven."

He was quiet, but quiet did not equal safe.

"I know," she said just as softly. Sabine and Septimus were shooting her confused looks.

When no one spoke, Septimus broke the silence, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

"I guess Sabine and I will leave you two to it," he muttered, and hastily withdrew with Sabine on his heels. Neither Riddle or Luna moved as the sound of their footsteps faded.

The very second the two Gryffindors could no longer be heard, Riddle struck, just like she knew he would. He bodily grabbed her, gripping her arm tightly enough that Luna just _knew _there would be bruises tomorrow, and all but dragged her into their shared common room to the scandalized glare of Queen Mauve. She didn't struggle. Instead, she forced herself to breathe in, breathe out, forced her muscles to relax.

This was bringing up memories she'd rather forget.

As soon as they were inside, her wand snapped into motion, her psyche somewhat centered. At such close range, surely she couldn't miss.

_Impedimenta!_

She was wrong. Riddle moved so fast that it was a thing of wonder. His hand released her while the other made for his wand, his body dipping backwards in a lithe, fluid manner, letting the spell race a scant centimeter above his nose, almost skimming his face. He moved, Luna observed absently, like water.

"Were you ever involved in Muggle ballet?"

He was startled enough to stop mid-incantation through whatever nasty hex he was about to throw at her.

"Of course not."

"A shame," Luna whispered sadly, and they were back in motion. Lights flashed, barely missing her as she stepped, leaped, and twirled, hardly ever putting up shields as her wand slashed and whipped through the crackling air. She'd never been the most powerful spell caster. Yet the D.A. had shown her she didn't need to be; her speed was more than enough to make up for it.

Usually.

But this wasn't a normal duel. She was dueling the Dark Lord, and he was just as fast as she. And despite her advantages: her age, her experience, and her somewhat-familiarity with his style, she was being pushed back towards the wall. She barely managed to banish the writhing black snakes he'd sent at her, and her own inferno that was shot back was easily dissipated with a lazy wave of a wand.

His red eyes glittered with dangerous concentration as she found her back pressed against the wall. Renewed determination filled her as she saw his wand slashing elegantly for something terrible.

_Go get him_, cheered Courage.

Grimly, she agreed.

She rarely used this spell, mostly because it was not Ministry approved – not unapproved, because she was rather sure no one else knew of its existence now that Daddy was dead – and could cause serious harm to her opponent. It was wild and hard to control. And most of all, it was the spell Mother had been testing when she died. As her own wand twisted, she felt something strange. A tingling feeling sliding up her arm, melting into her, much like that of that day with Nigel on the hill.

_Cavernis!_ she thought, finishing the movements a split second before he, and a bright yellow light sped from the tip of her now glowing wand like a sunbeam. He was forced to stop his spell motion to try to move before realizing he _couldn't_. She grinned savagely, lost in the exhilaration of _finally letting it all out _against this man who'd ruined everything, waiting for the spell to slam into him.

It hit him with the strength of a battering ram.

He stumbled, his long fingers flying to his throat. His lips moved to gasp for air but could find none. And she watched, pitiless, feral, as he struggled weakly, his brilliant eyes fading to green – green – verdant green –

Something finally broke through the red haze in her mind.

_What are you doing?_

She froze at Compassion's frantic words. The scene was all too familiar – an enemy, writhing on the ground in front of her while she watched and _enjoyed_. How, exactly, was she any better than Riddle? A sharp wave of nausea flooded into her along with bitter self loathing. She _wasn't _any better.

"_Finite Incantatem_."

She didn't watch as he slowly recovered from the deathly white pallor that had overtaken his aristocratic face, didn't watch as he stood, leaning on the wall for support, didn't watch as he picked his dropped wand up from the floor, didn't react as her own wand flew out of her hand. Horror. That was all that pervaded her mind: horror at what she had almost done.

_Almost_, reminded Compassion soothingly, gentler than before. _The key is almost._

But she'd been so close.

She'd been on the edge, and only Compassion had kept her from leaping into the abyss.

"Why did you stop?"

His voice cut straight through her thoughts. There was anger, frothing, frightening anger, but there was also curiosity as his wand touched her throat. She didn't flinch at the sharp point boring into her neck as she met his eyes, her own startling blue orbs free of any vitriol.

"Because I didn't want to be like you."

The wand twisted. Her heart pounded even faster as his eyes burned crimson. The blackness that had always swirled around him thickened as his lips curved in a mockery of a smile.

"_Crucio_."

Fire rushed through her veins, pervading her senses. It was absolute agony. A scream bubbled up in her throat, and she let it free without a second thought. After all, she mused in the tiny pain-free corner of her mind, it wasn't anything she hadn't felt before.

* * *

><p>"That's not very nice."<p>

He blinked at her conversational tone, despite her voice was hoarse from screaming. And, watching her pull herself out of the fetal position she'd curled up in and support herself using the sofa, smoking slightly from their duel, he found himself absurdly amused, despite the fact he should have been furious. He was angry, he really was. After all, she'd almost strangled him to death. And he'd _crucio_ed her in return.

He'd _crucioed _her five times, actually, so, to be completely fair, even _he _had to admit they were almost even. Almost. But the monster was already sleeping, or at least drowsy.

For some impossible reason, he could never stay angry with this new Luna Faulkner for long.

She made quite a sight: wandless, her robes ragged and somewhat torn, her golden hair flying in a halo around her face, and – most amazingly – appearing without a concern in the world even though she was visibly shaking.

"Staring at people isn't very nice either," she informed him.

"Neither is telling stories."

She met his eyes defiantly. So they were at an impasse again, it seemed: he couldn't say anything without admitting what he knew of his past, and she could say nothing without admitting she knew something. If anything. But it was too much of a coincidence.

Wasn't it?

It could be a coincidence. Surely Faulkner was just being fanciful, like she always was. What came out of her mouth _never _made sense. Why would this be any different?

But somewhere deep down, Tom knew that the only reason he even considered the possibility was because he really, really _wanted _it to be a coincidence.

* * *

><p>He didn't say anything, choosing to observe her dispassionately. His eyes were that beautiful green again. Not that he or his eyes were beautiful, of course. Just the color. She'd never seen that on anyone. Harry's eyes had been equally stunning, but to Luna, the brightness there lacked the depth of Riddle's. She could probably drown in those eyes.<p>

They held each other's gaze, neither one looking away for what seemed like forever.

Then, to ruin it all, Luna's knees gave out at last. She crumbled to the floor in an undignified heap of black cloth and skewed limbs, her hair sprawling across the floor as the world spun into darkness.

When she woke again, it was on the couch; their common room was dark and a fire was blazing in the hearth. She grimaced. Despite having endured no true physical harm, other than possibly her sore arm, she still felt as if a Five-Pronged Rhinoceros stampede had trampled all over her. She let herself enjoy the soft cushions for a few minutes, relishing their gentle support.

Speaking of cushions, had Riddle moved her? It was obvious why she wasn't in the hospital wing – she couldn't imagine that Madame Harrison would miss the telltale signs of over-exposure to the Cruciatius, and that would bring _both _of them problems. Not that she could tell on him, of course, not when she'd been the first to hit him with a highly questionable curse. It was funny how their actions always balanced out. She was always the instigator, and he always responded with more force than necessary.

But this time, she'd passed out on the floor, and – alright, realistically speaking, it _would_ look rather terrible for him if she'd suddenly disappeared when Sabine and Septimus had both seen him as being the last one to be with her, especially since Dumbledore was already suspicious and knew they had a history of conflict – he hadn't only _not _done anything, he'd even lifted her from the floor with uncharacteristic thoughtfulness.

What was he up to this time?

She glanced at the clock. _Twelve thirty_. She'd been out for five hours or so, then. It was no wonder her throat was so dry. Gingerly, she crawled off the couch, her leg muscles throbbing. She might have to skive off tomorrow if this didn't improve – what she really needed was some Nerve-Relief potion. Could she maybe brew some herself? She did have until nine tomorrow – it should be enough time, and heaven knew she'd brewed the potion enough times before for Mr. Ollivander and herself.

She hobbled toward her room for a glass of water from the sink. She'd never been more grateful to have her own rooms, even if she did have to share a sitting room with Riddle.

After a few minutes of rummaging through her bags, she managed to find her seventh year Potions kit. _It would have to suffice for now_, she thought ruefully, wishing for her supplies from home; with these, she'd have to substitute for a few ingredients. She returned to the common room with a sigh. It really was a pity she needed the fireplace for this. Then again, Riddle was either asleep or out, so it didn't really matter, did it?

She soon fell into routine. It had been a while since she brewed this potion, but she had not forgotten the movements, not yet. The boiling liquid slowly turned purple, then a glimmering pink –

"What are you doing?"

She jumped a little, and a bit of the concoction splashed on the carpet, burning a small hole. "Riddle?"

"I was finishing some work in the library," he said tightly. Luna paused in her stirring for a moment. Who stayed up in the library until two in the morning? Granted, seventh years and prefects _could_ visit the library late at night in theory, but it was an unwritten rule of her time that everyone vacated the place by midnight. She doubted things were any different now.

Still, she didn't press, recognizing a lost cause when she saw one. "I'm brewing a Nerve-Relief potion, if you must know. It's almost done – I just have to stir for another minute or two."

He moved closer. Her still overly sensitive nerves tingled. "Have we learned those?"

"I don't remember – but the instructions aren't too hard to follow."

"What instructions?"

She followed his searching gaze to find a distinct lack of any textbooks around her and winced at her own carelessness. "The last steps are fairly repetitive, so I returned the book," she lied. "Oh – look, it's done!" Hastily, she poured the liquid into a glass, and the remainder into a vial – just in case, of course.

"You're better at Potions than I remembered."

She stopped mid-sip to assess his expression, but it was devoid of anything but polite curiosity. How odd. Was that a compliment?

"Maybe," she allowed, feeling the potion take effect, soothing her battered nerves. Without the pain to bother her, she quickly realized how tired she was, too tired to continue the state of anxiety she was _always _in around Riddle, and rose to her feet. "Goodnight."

She was almost to her room when he finally spoke. "Seven tomorrow, then?"

It took her a while to realize what he was referring to, and she couldn't help the smile that danced across her face. After what happened today, he was still willing to give that project a try?

"Seven it is."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Thanks for reading, yet again! This (somewhat short) update was a bit faster than usual - since it's break, I've actually had time to write. :) Please drop by with a review. Again, it really means a lot, and it doesn't take much time...does it?**

**Anyway, despite the update being short, it was a lot of Luna/Tom interaction, as I'm starting to speed the story along. I'm considering upping the rating - the fic might get a bit darker from here onwards. **

**R&R!**

**-Allarice**


	10. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine: Fascination**

There were no empty seats. That was the first thing she observed, walking down to the Slytherin table. The second was that the chair at the end was conspicuously absent, as was the one who usually occupied it. Not that she cared, of course. She was merely worried – his absence couldn't possibly bode well.

A tinkling laugh, malicious in its cheer, drew her attention from her absorption with the missing seat to the icy gray eyes of Lucretia Black. She was resplendent in her pureblood birthright, her skin aglow with impossibly rosy pallor and her black curls thick and glossy, as her bright – almost garishly bright – lips parted in a supercilious smirk. Luna was almost jealous. _Almost_. Because in the end, inner beauty was what was most important, and she had yet to see it in the prefect.

"Why, just the person I wanted to see. How was your night?"

The slight dissonance of malignance in Lucretia's smooth voice grated on Luna's ears.

"Perfectly lovely, thank you. How was yours?"

"Wonderful. Why don't you have a seat, Luna? Oh, _wait_ – there isn't one. Good heavens, where could have it gone?"

It stung, that she was being ostracized by her house already. It had been what, a week? Still, she refused to show her hurt apart from the slight flush in her cheeks. She wouldn't give them what they wanted to see.

"How curious," she said evenly, conjuring a soft, plush-lined chair in her usual spot. Nott and Cecelia jumped as the dandelion-patterned monstrosity – monstrous to them, of course, not to Luna – appeared between them. "It must have been taken by the Great Pumpkin. He loves chairs, you know, but is entirely incapable of distinguishing one from another. I shall have to speak with him later today."

Lucretia's eyes narrowed, all pretenses of politeness discarded as she folded her arms on the table and leaned in.

"Your behavior is a blight on Slytherin House," she hissed across the table. Luna offered an unruffled smile in response as she speared a sausage. She applauded Lucretia for saying so to her face. No, what really scared her were the whispers behind her back, the hard smiles hidden behind manicure-tipped hands. The intangible, the constant, lurking lack of acceptance. She hated that.

A beautiful white owl, heart-shaped face framed by slight patterns of brown, fluttered in front of her, creamy parchment gripped in its talons. _Mail_. Who did she know in this time that would write her? She deftly unraveled the roll, taking care to slip a small piece of meat to the owl.

"Thank you. You're a beautiful, beautiful girl, did you know that?"

"Does _she _reply?" It was Rosier this time, his pale blue gaze cruel as it raked over the bird and then her. It frosted over as if both left something to be desired. Luna met his eyes squarely, boring into them until he looked away.

"She's excellent company," she replied. _Or at least better than you_.

Ignoring whatever bile spewed out of his mouth next, she swept an assessing look over the occupants of Slytherin House. Lucretia, of course, appeared disapproving, her taut mouth belied by the glittering outrage in her eyes; Lestrange – she passed over him, remembering the last time he'd looked at her and the twin feelings of terror and disgust that had raced, twisting and turning, up her insides; Nott, Orion Black, and Cecelia's blank, unreadable masks of politeness; Malfoy's obvious embarrassment; and the faint amusement that sparked in Dolohov's eyes behind a veil of cordiality.

To her surprise, only Lucretia and Rosier were overtly hostile. _Maybe the others still possess some form of manners_, breathed an awed Compassion. There was a rustle of movement from her left.

"Your letter," Nott said, gesturing at the scroll that was rapidly sliding into a pool of syrup.

"Oh!" Her wand flicked, and it rose up again before wringing itself clean and dry. "Thank you for reminding me."

He gave her a small nod of acknowledgment. She smiled briefly at him before unrolling the thick, creamy parchment, complete with pressed gold edges that flashed under the light of the floating candles. The writing was neat and straight, regimental in its delivery both in letter and style:

_Dear Luna,_

_I regret to inform you that I will be on business for the remainder of the year. Since I will not be able to receive missives, please do not attempt to contact me. You may stay at school or visit a friend during the holidays if you wish. Best wishes._

_Yours,_

_Father_

Her throat tightened reflexively. It didn't feel like quite her action, though; the bitter disappointment that washed through her was most definitely not her own. She frowned. Was that…_worry_? It was, the unfamiliar agitation sliding and churning with her, but the more important question was worry for _what _or _whom_?

"Bad news?" Cecelia inquired concernedly, coming close as if to comfort her. Luna knew it was just a front so she could peer over her shoulder and read the note. "That's simply _awful_ - "

"Avery," Nott said sharply. Celia broke off midsentence, her glare venomous, yet her voice was honey sweet.

"Poor darling. Still not over your little crush?"

Nott tensed. For a Slytherin trained to display little emotion, what Luna saw on him was frightening. Cecelia was an animal of the worst kind: a purple spotted _cow_. Feigning obliviousness to his stony demeanor, she gasped.

"Oh, Cecelia, how did you guess?"

Cecelia's gaze flew to her. "Guess what?"

"How did you know that I'm _so _in love with – " She cast her gaze about for a suitable subject and settled on the first male in her line of sight. " – Orion? It's like butterflies. Lots and lots of pink butterflies, all dripping with wonderful golden butter – "

She stopped because she was beginning to feel bad for Black. His head had whipped around when he heard his name, and he now looked faintly nauseous. Nott, on the other hand, was chuckling, discomfort forgotten; Malfoy was in fits of hilarity. Regardless, Cecelia was sufficiently distracted. Compassion mentally high-fived her. _Mission accomplished._

Her personal sensation of triumph didn't last.

" – Butter?"

There was no mistaking that smooth voice, or the prickle of power that lingered at the edge of her senses.

"It's quite delicious," Luna said primly, turning to face an impeccably dressed, expressionless Riddle. She rather hoped he hadn't heard the rest of her spiel. By Merlin, that would be embarrassing.

He smiled. It was cuttingly honed as he lowered his voice to a whisper, soft enough so that only she could hear. "Is Black delicious as well?"

Her cheeks flamed far redder than when confronted with Lucretia's barbs. To Luna's credit, her pumpkin juice stayed firmly in her hand. It was delightful, she mused, that she could overcome her tendency to drop things when Riddle did the unexpected. The same could not be said for her expression, as _Riddle_ and _innuendo _didn't quite go together in her head – or anyone else's.

She delicately shut her gaping mouth.

"I haven't tasted him. However, the way he looks at the moment reminds me of avocados, not butter."

And it was true. The dark-haired boy appeared somewhat squishy and green. Not at all like butter, smooth and rich in texture, and pale but glistening in appearance, just like –

She slammed a door on those thoughts. This was one metaphor that she didn't care to complete.

Riddle straightened. Although she'd known before he was tall, this was the first time she'd noticed the lean muscles along those long limbs and the effortless grace with which he carried himself. Or perhaps she had, but before, it had all been a threat. She'd been afraid of his physical strength, afraid of his magnetism, his charisma. By all means, that fear should have intensified as a result of the night before. Yet she _couldn't _forget that he'd carried her to the sofa and draped a blanket over her. That tiny act of kindness – what did it mean? What game was he playing now? And more importantly, what else could he really do to her, short of death?

The fear was still there, of course, but now it was edged with a dangerous appreciation.

Taking in her flustered state, he smirked. It was obvious that he had wanted to get under her skin with that last comment, she realized, and by the looks of it, he had. She stiffened, but he cast his gaze away from her and onto the empty space that his chair usually inhabited. Displeasure rolled off him in waves. The table immediately went silent, hands and cutlery frozen in midair.

It was Malfoy who first spoke. "My apologies, m – Tom." Luna had to fight a sharp intake of breath. Had he been about to say 'my lord?' "I thought you said you wouldn't be at breakfast?"

"I changed my mind." If Luna hadn't known better, she would have described the noise Malfoy made as a gulp. Tension was fraught in the air as she warily observed what he would do next. To her amazement, he looked at Nott. "If you would be so kind as to slide over?"

Surprise flared in the latter's brown eyes before his face blanked, and he moved left. A chair, subtly more ornate than the ones Hogwarts offered, appeared next to Luna. Of course. Far be it from Riddle to miss a chance to complete a power play. Still, she couldn't contain her astonishment as he sat next to her instead of at his usual place.

"What brought this on?"

Riddle jerked his head curtly. Immediately, the staring members of Slytherin House erupted into conversation a tad louder than the norm. He offered her another smile when they'd looked away, a softer one that made him appear terrifyingly charming.

"As we'll be working together for the time being, I thought it would be prudent to have a truce."

Luna didn't bother to hide her suspicion.

"And Slughorn is really a ball of sludge in disguise," she answered without batting an eyelash. Pointing at herself and Riddle, she quietly cast a _Muffliato_. "What is it you really want?"

His lips thinned.

"Why is it so hard for you to believe I don't have an ulterior motive?"

She laughed softly before she allowed an unusual seriousness to overtake her tone. "Riddle, after the events of last night, I think it would make me a fool not to wonder. And it's rather pointless for you to fake politeness with me, isn't it?"

"I would never pretend with you."

"I'm not as clueless as I act." Words were flying out of her throat. It was like they weren't hers; Luna surveyed herself with an odd sense of detachment, utterly bewildered, as they kept coming, pumping adrenaline into her system with each syllable. "I used spells that you have never heard of that night, didn't I? You must be curious about where they come from – and worried that you're losing your touch."

The corners of his mouth tightened; his eyes were hooded. Dangerous pulses of magic were escaping from his usually iron hold, thrilling and frightening all at once, much like her interactions with Riddle always were.

His words were a deadly hiss.

"You presume much."

She felt daring. Reckless. Was this how Harry felt, rushing off into the most dangerous of situations with no further reassurance than luck?

"I'm _right_. But I'll make a deal with you nonetheless."

Luna resisted the urge to cover her throat with her hands lest he throttle her, rage simmering behind his cool façade of indifference.

"What is it that you want?"

"Swear off whatever plans you have for Samhain, and you'll have your truce. I'll even teach you a spell or two as a bonus."

Riddle inhaled, a movement that was all too quick, too sudden. _He was caught off guard_, Luna realized. His usually dark eyes were glittering a bright emerald, and for the briefest moment as he took that breath, they appeared _amazed_. If she had to hazard a guess, it would be that he had underestimated her despite their encounters and just now found his mistake. The thought should have made goosebumps appear on her flesh. Instead, it was exhilarating.

_Luna_, Rationality said, sounding somewhat frantic. _Luna!_

"What makes you so sure I'm planning something nefarious? Perhaps I simply want to experience that power rush you described at the prefect meeting."

"First law of arithmancy, of magical theory – you can't get something out of nothing. Samhain doesn't _increase _magic, necessarily; it polarizes it. Half light, half dark becomes _all_ light, and that's why the magic is so powerful. And you _know_ that."

"What a veritable fountain of knowledge you are." He paused to survey their Slytherin audience; those who had been watching looked away, mocking sneer still frozen in place. The tension dissipated slightly at that. "You believe me so dark as to not even have a sliver of light, then?"

Her reminder was matter-of-fact in spite of her trembling hands, neatly folded on her lap. "You use the Cruciatus the same way a bunny eats carrots while hopping."

Riddle's lips twitched. To her amazement, his anger faded ever-so-slightly, enough to allow her a tentative release of breath.

"Interesting euphemism. Faulkner, you have a deal."

_She hadn't expected him to agree_.

"Pardon?"

"A few compromises from your original one, obviously." That was more like Riddle, all slippery conditions and endless endgames. "Namely two. First, the spells you teach me are that interesting flash of yellow last night and its counter."

She didn't hesitate. What was one more spell to his already deadly arsenal in comparison to whatever he surely had planned for that night?

"Done," she breathed. "The second?"

He gave her a feral grin that wasn't reassuring in the least.

"I don't _want _a truce."

* * *

><p>She was first cornered by Sabine in Charms. Upon walking in, the tall strawberry blonde immediately dragged her into a seat.<p>

"What's going on between you and Riddle?"

"What do you _think _is going on between us?" she asked curiously.

"Nothing," Sabine said quickly, blushing slightly. "Just – he seems so _intense _about you, and I was wondering why – "

Imagination grinned, while Rationality rolled his eyes. _Intense was one way to put it_. Nevertheless, Luna knew that there was no way to properly explain that scene in the common room that Sabine had witnessed; while only a prelude to the night's events, it was still far beyond the norm.

"We have our differences," she chose her words carefully, "and we haven't settled all of them, not yet."

Her friend rolled her eyes. "What a perfectly Slytherin answer."

The words hammered into Luna, knocking the breath from her lungs in spite of the fact they were meant only in a teasing way. She _was _acting different from before this time mess: the way she had cursed Riddle was certainly part of how she came to that conclusion, but not the only reason. How she'd dealt with Lucretia, examined the motives of Abraxas Malfoy, cared more than ever what others thought – it wasn't her.

Or perhaps it was, to some extent. But much of it, now that she was aware, felt utterly foreign. The body switch had changed her in some spectacularly frightening way. It was almost as if she had imbibed someone else's personality into her own –

_Merlin_.

Luna prided herself on clear sight. It wasn't as if she sought motives in others, or analyzed their characters to pieces, but when she looked she often just knew. Her lips twisted in a wry smile. That clearly hadn't been the case recently, if she wasn't able to discern this little tidbit about herself. What with the flashbacks and all, the truth was staring in the face, frog-style.

So she wasn't just Luna anymore. That made sense, considering she didn't quite feel like Luna Lovegood. A little too callous, a little too Slytherin. The contribution of an altered body. The vessel was different, no matter how similar, obviously; dare she say her soul remained the same? It _was _an empty container that once housed a fragment that brought her here.

"Luna, are you alright?"

"I'm feeling wonderful." She beamed. "You just made me realize something very important about myself."

"That you're a Slytherin?"

"You know, for such an earthly person, you're remarkably clear of nargles."

Sabine blinked, utterly bemused.

"I'll take that as a compliment."

Luna's senses spiked as an agile figure slid into the seat beside her. For all his faults and Rationality's sighs, Antonin Dolohov was quite possibly the most aesthetically pleasing boy she'd ever set her sights on.

"I hope you don't mind me being here," he said smoothly with a charming grin. If the dazed look on Sabine's face was anything to go by, her friend didn't mind in the least.

Luna frowned. He was perfectly nice to look at, Dolohov, but now that he was so close, she could tell he was missing something. The lack made his beauty hollow, a fringe effect deprived of the centerpiece. He didn't possess the sense of enthralling power and swirling charisma to accompany the façade, filling it with a dark, thrilling magnetism. Without it, he was merely handsome; there was nothing dazzling about it at all. Plus, he was a Death-Eater-to-be.

Sabine could do _so _much better.

"Actually, I do mind," she chirped, "but as you probably don't care, you're welcome to sit here."

A flash of anger lit large hazel eyes, fringed with the longest lashes she'd ever seen on a man. He glanced at Luna as if unsure what to make of her.

"Right." Slivers of condescension mixed with disgust manage to escape his tightly controlled voice, leaving her to wonder if Riddle had trained his pets personally because they seemed rather inadequate. "I was also going to extend an invitation to you to join us in Hogsmeade this weekend."

She didn't miss the way he purposefully didn't acknowledge Sabine. Fortescue was a pureblood name, if she remembered correctly. She darted a look at her friend, who appeared hurt but not surprised as she folded the yellow hems of her robes. _A Hufflepuff._ Her mouth tightened in anger at his prejudice.

"I'm afraid I can't," she began sweetly, giving him her best smile. "My schedule's quite full at the moment, you see. Daisy-picking is a top priority, while cavorting with Riddle's sycophants is considerably lower on the list."

Purple wasn't a flattering color on him: abruptly, Dolohov wasn't so pretty anymore.

"Watch your step, Faulkner, or you might end up like your mother – "

A furious wave of memories rising – _a flash of green light, hoarse screaming as a dark-haired woman fell and an indescribable sadness she could not name; a cauldron exploding, fragments of poisonous liquid exploding over a petite blonde and that same voice screaming equally hoarsely; Hermione's stricken, empty face as Dolohov's curse hit her in the chest in the Department of Mysteries_ –

In an instant, she felt power bubbling up her arms, clinging like wild vines. Like the magic Nigel had shown her on the hill. It flooded her; she suddenly wondered at how Professor Dumbledore and Riddle felt if they always had this frothing mixture inside them at their beck and call.

Sabine and Dolohov had both gone silent, staring at her. Their shock hit her concentration. With that, her tenuous hold on the magic loosened, and it slid out of her and vanished, leaving her oddly drained. She wasn't even angry anymore. It was as if it had taken her emotions with it.

She only felt empty.

* * *

><p>Tom watched her sit, chatting airily with Fortescue. He'd always found the Hufflepuff extraordinarily irritating but inconsequential. Until now. Now, she was associating with Faulkner, that that changed <em>everything<em>.

He'd erred. That irked him, a constant thorn in the side much like Faulkner was, that he had judged her incorrectly; she'd changed since her fall, no doubt, but he had failed to recognize the magnitude. Faulkner, it seemed, possessed newly-grown teeth, hidden behind a ridiculously vaporous demeanor. When he pushed, she pushed back; if he pushed harder, _she _would push harder, always meeting in a deadlock.

His eyes narrowed as Antonin took the place beside her. Abraxas had already tried, failing abysmally – he'd been properly punished for that – and it seemed Dolohov was making his move, to thoroughly discredit the other and perhaps even usurp him. Pathetically obvious, their games to gain his favor. And these were the _clever _ones.

The Hufflepuff looked as if she was drowning in Antonin, reveling in the attention. Tom wondered what would happen if he actually _did _drown her. Would she still have the same drunken air? Faulkner, on the other hand, appeared at her sweetest as she smiled at him and said something too softly for him to hear. He watched as Antonin puffed up in visible anger. _Fool_. In comparison, Faulkner was unfortunately competent.

And then Faulkner changed.

Her eyes intensified, so much so that he could clearly see the storm brewing behind her placid expression, and power inundated the room, much like his would if he didn't keep it tightly on leash –

It was foreign. While Dumbledore's was clearly the light to his dark, opposites in every way, hers was a strange mix of neither, far removed from anything he'd seen before. If he had to compare it to something, it would be fresh spring rain and ancient stone. To think he had expected sunshine and rainbows… Regardless, it was fascinating.

_She was fascinating_.

It was a spur-of-the-moment decision. Unusual, but he knew that no matter how long he thought it over, he could come to the same conclusion. She was an enigma, a new flavor to toy with; he could easily discern her to be the strongest yet. Powerful and intelligent. He would win in the end, break her, shatter her to deliciously satisfying pieces, of that he had no doubt. Tom always won. And she was not his equal. But she made a better opponent than any other he'd seen.

He found himself looking forward to the challenge.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I have not, and will not abandon this story. That said, the year's been awfully hectic, but I promise I'll be updating frequently starting from now.**

**Thanks so much for reading and reviewing! I really do appreciate it; it brightens my day considerably, and I will do my best to respond. C:  
><strong>

**-Allarice  
><strong>


	11. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10: Negotiation**

"Have anything in mind?"

"Of course." Dark eyes bored into Luna with that piercing arrogance only he possessed. "Do you?"

"Possibly," she shrugged, fiddling with a radish earring and adjusting it so it hung at a bizarre sideways angle. Seven o'clock, Thursday night. Their artifact creation meeting. She'd been early, having little to do apart from classes; he being predictably punctual at precisely seven, on the dot, right down to the second hand. Not that she'd been watching. "I want to make a transportation device."

His lip curled in immediate disgust.

"This is artifact _creation_, not mimicry. Last time I checked, Portkeys already exist."

"It would be one that could take you anywhere," she continued undeterred, as if she hadn't heard him. "Past wards, to Unplottable places like the Isle of Drear. I've always wanted to see the Quintapeds."

"Unplottable locations exist on separate planes."

Luna smiled, the prickling of heightened nerves assaulting her spine. Asking him for help in any form was dangerous. It was also overwhelmingly appealing, with relatively low risk (for what sane person would identify her as a time traveler?), large gains, and an alarmingly satisfying sense of, if not quite _coup d'état_, irony to be derived.

"I know."

A spark of interest bloomed into something more. She'd thrown down another challenge that Riddle could not refuse, intriguing him through the idea of doing what could not be done.

"There would need to be a power source. Something strong enough to anchor the device while matter tears around it."

"Runes could. If you set up a sequence, like so – "

His expression was unreadable as he leaned down to decipher the lines she'd just penned. _Zjorak's Five with Adwen's Sixth._ And then –

"Clever."

She would be a fool if she ever acknowledged how much his grudging respect really meant to her. It came from Lord Voldemort, after all. Instead, Luna grinned at him.

"I know," she repeated, exactly the same way as before, and she could have sworn she saw a shade of amusement glitter green.

Time passed absurdly quickly after that. He really wasn't so bad while occupied with something other than world domination, Luna realized somewhere between twelve and one o'clock. Perhaps it was only her befuddled mind talking. Regardless, being honest to herself, she had to admit she enjoyed working with him. His brilliance, his determination, and the way everything else seemed to fall into irrelevance in lieu of his goal could almost make one forget who he was and what he would do.

And they worked well together. He was a master of making what he was given into what he needed, finding intricate tricks and steps that she could never have even begun to think of in a million years. She, on the other hand, was an expert at taking thin air and creating the given, something more; she was not ashamed to admit that she saw things no one else did.

Still, that didn't mean she didn't want her sleep.

"It's late. The midnight trufflers will infest your bed if you're not in it soon," she advised, gathering her quills and parchment into two neat little piles.

He shot her a scathing glare. Somehow, he didn't seem tired at all.

"Another hour free of your nonsense, and I'll have the first phase mapped out."

"Mhm. My rest will be the answer to all your problems, then." She gave him her most infuriatingly pleasant smile. "Goodnight, Riddle – "

"_Sit_."

That held a note of warning that she didn't need Rationality to tell her not to ignore. She sat.

"I tolerate your antics," he said softly, silkily, but no less dangerous for it. "But only to a point. I find I must remind you again that you are a Slytherin, and therefore, there are certain rules you must follow."

He was close, too close with his nose inches from hers. With one swift movement, his hands locked on her forearms in steel-like vises, holding her immobile on the couch. The pull of his magic was overwhelming at such close quarters – if she had thought it strong before, it was now so magnetic she could feel tendrils of her own eagerly touching it, wrapping around the dark. Her breaths became short gasps.

"Get _off_ me."

"Make me."

She rammed her knee into his groin.

He groaned, releasing her for a second as he dropped to a knee. In a moment, she was standing, shaking with some crazy mixture of fear and adrenaline that made her forget any sleepiness from before. She couldn't resist making an irreverent quip.

"And we'd been getting along so well."

He grinned. It was more of a feral snarl than anything remotely human. No more so, at least, than those of the shadows crawling towards her, streaming like misshapen ribbons from his wand. She dissipated them with a flash of white light.

And they were off. Spells flying, curses barely avoided, lives saved by a harrowing inch – Riddle wasn't playing. To be honest, neither was she; nothing truly _lethal _or _decapitating_, of course, but anything even a hair-breadth away was fair game. She couldn't win. She didn't need to win. All she had to do was slow him for a moment so she could get into her warded room –

A sharp rap made them both freeze.

_Stupid_, chided Prudence. The rush Luna had fed on while dueling fled her body, leaving her nothing less than exhausted. _Stupid_, she agreed. She met Riddle's eyes, knowing he was thinking the same thing – the obvious traces of dark magic on the walls, the shattered pieces of furniture, the demolished state of the hangings.

"Potions accident," he said decisively.

"Right."

He proceeded to right the furniture with a wave of his wand and cleansed the walls. For just a moment, she allowed herself to marvel at his quick thinking, and his equally impressive wandwork. Talent was as talent did. Then, ever so slowly, she opened the door just a crack.

"Professor Dumbledore?"

The venerated wizard appeared haggard. More so than she'd ever remembered him being up until the very last years, when Voldemort was back and everything seemed so very bleak; lines that she had never noticed before had become deep grooves around a twinkleless gaze.

"Miss Faulkner, if I could speak to you alone for a moment." He waited a moment for Riddle to disappear to his room before continuing. "I'm afraid there's been unfortunate news."

"Isn't there always?"

He didn't smile at her attempt to lighten his mood.

"Your father," he said gently, "has passed away."

* * *

><p>Tom arched an eyebrow at Dumbledore's words. With anyone else, he wouldn't have bothered to eavesdrop, but since it was Faulkner and Dumbledore – the former an inexplicably interesting enigma, the latter an irritating adversary – he had to know. It was easy enough; no magic was required. All he had to do was listen at the keyhole of his room.<p>

Expecting melodramatic sobs to the Transfiguration professor's declaration, he was surprised when none came. Instead, there was only a long, dead moment of silence, followed by even words.

"How did it happen?"

"Officially, a heart attack."

Another pause.

"And unofficially?"

"_Avada Kedavra_," Dumbledore answered so softly that Tom had to strain to hear him. "I hope you understand this is sensitive information that cannot be repeated. Still, you have a right to know – I suspect it has to do with his work in Germany. Something likely went wrong, and I'd hazard that the political climate there makes very few allowances for mistakes."

"Grindelwald."

The delivery was flat, but he could detect a quaver. So she was more affected than she let on. He let out a breath of self-satisfaction. She was weak, weaker than he; it would only make it easier for him, that she cared. Today's duel had been an error. He'd let his anger get the better of him, which, with her, was not an option the way it was with his other Slytherin followers. Their blind subservience had made him careless. Faulkner was new, exotic, and required more subtle methods, like those he had employed in his earlier days.

All that aside, the mention of the Hungarian Dark Lord piqued his interest like nothing else.

"What makes you say that?"

His eyes narrowed. Dumbledore's sentences had lost their falsely soothing quality and become something measured. She had disconcerted him.

"The Nifflers tell me things, sometimes," she said in that breathless, airy way of hers. Tom could imagine the dreamy smile on her lips, the way her eyes vacated so it seemed like she was a million miles away. "But I'm quite capable of connecting the dots even without them. My father was making peace talks in Germany. Grindelwald was the one to necessitate those in the first place."

He also heard the message in her voice: _And isn't that the most obvious thing in the world?_ Aimed at him, he wanted to throttle her. But when that unique brand of condescension that wasn't quite condescension was aimed at Dumbledore…he smirked.

"An astute observation. Then again, on a different note, I am hearing that you're becoming quite the prodigal student."

"Internal and external influences considered, Professor, I don't think you're finding it much of a surprise. And – I appreciate it that you informed me – but it's a lot to take in." Again, a short breath of loaded silence. "I think I need some time to – "

"Of course. Good night, Miss Faulkner."

"Good night."

A swish of a cloak, a click of a door. The old coot was gone.

He walked out, intending to retrieve his books. Some of them weren't material he wanted to leave for Faulkner to see. Nothing truly incriminating, of course, but not quite something he trusted a student joined at the hip with Dumbledore to discover.

"What do you think?"

Tom turned to look at her. She appeared smaller than ever; she was a good head shorter than him, he knew, yet now she appeared like a china doll with her large eyes and stark white skin. There was a paleness to her complexion he'd never seen before that indicated exactly how shaken she really was. Diminutive and fragile.

"What do I think of what?"

"Tom Riddle would never miss such a golden opportunity to reconnoiter," she informed him, "so I assume you listened in on every word of that conversation. Theories, Riddle? Any Slytherin insider information I should know about?"

He sensed an edge beneath her usual lightness, steel underneath mist. Meeting her unblinking blue gaze, he felt strangely unsettled before shaking it off. This was _Faulkner_. He could handle her.

"If there was any house information," he said calmly, not bothering with useless denials, for there were certain things they both irrevocably knew, "I'm sure you would know."

"Not really." She twisted a bead on her feathery necklace before adding, sounding completely unrepentant, that "Lucretia and I aren't all that friendly at the moment."

His lips twitched.

"I wonder why."

"I'm sure it isn't intentional." Her eyes widened so that round became impossibly round. If Tom were even a little less used to reading signs, he would have missed her sarcasm. The juxtaposition between expression and tone was rather amusing. If his followers were this interesting, he might actually not _crucio _them every night – "You're smiling."

Startled, he accidentally wrinkled a page. He was _not _smiling. Tom didn't do smiles, unless they were deliberate actions in pursuit of a higher goal. A swift recovery was definitely needed. "Excuse me?"

"Well, you were until I told you. Telling you was probably silly on my part."

"You regret making me stop, then?"

To his satisfaction, she blushed_. Charming, likeable, that's the key_. Get close, rip her secrets from her mind – or slowly convince her to reveal them, he didn't really care which – and then destroy her, leaving her an empty shell to beg for his attentions like the rest of Slytherin house. He slipped on the mask. It was all a question of which mask to use with whom; this one, it seemed, was the best to fit Faulkner.

"You're changing the subject." The pink was fading. Instead, there was something unreadable in her piercing gaze that he would have termed accusation if he didn't know better. It was an expression that showed up all too often. "Please, tell me about Grindelwald."

"I know no more than you."

"Liars never catch the Snidget," she said very seriously.

It was at times like these that he wondered about her sanity. What worried him more was how she seemed to know him better than anyone else, save Dumbledore, despite their limited interaction. She was inordinately, unsettlingly perceptive.

_Everything can be used._

"Since we're trading proverbs, I remind you that nothing can be gained for free."

"I have nothing you want."

"Nothing?" A knowing smirk graced his lips. "As you're pretending Gryffindor-like idiocy for the moment, I'll have to set the offer: all I know about Grindelwald for a brief look into your mind."

Her answer was immediate. "No."

"Letting your father's murderer lay for your own interests. Isn't that disappointing for such a beacon of morality?"

She smiled serenely. "Phrased that way, it sounds rather wrong, doesn't it? But really, it's the only prudent thing to do. The trade is a bit skewed – and you really aren't the type to talk about fairness or justice. It's a little disturbing."

He should have been angry. The monster in his chest should be roaring with cold rage. Rage concentrated in the tip of his wand, holding her in place with sheer pain, listening to her screams – yet there was nothing of the sort. Instead, he felt strangely calm, even amused.

"I reset my terms. I will answer three questions to the best of my ability, and in return, you will accept Dolohov's offer to join me in Hogsmeade this weekend."

"You can't be serious."

"Dead serious."

She frowned, somewhere between stunned and confused. "You gain nothing from this –"

"Shock value. Entertainment. Your stellar company," he listed easily. "Or perhaps I just want to show you that we're not such horrible people after all, Faulkner."

Ringing laughter echoed around the room. "How many times have we dueled?"

"Never without provocation."

"You _crucioed_ me – "

"After you tried to strangle me. Putting the past behind us, I believe we could be very valuable friends to one another."

Her eyes sharpened, the steel he had noted earlier coming out in full force. Fragility vanished. She looked cold as frost, those wide eyes narrowing, any trace of dreaminess gone until she appeared as she had when he'd first heard his name dropping from those pale pink lips.

"_Valuable_. You all but threatened to destroy me not so long ago, Riddle. What brought about this change of heart?"

"I don't take kindly to invasions of my privacy. However, I'm willing to make an exception in your case. Let me be honest with you, _Luna_." He moved in, not missing the way she jumped when he called her by first name. He didn't know why she let him this time – maybe because he hadn't moved to touch her, perhaps because she was more affected by her father's death than he'd let on. "You're intelligent. Observant. Skilled with magic."

He inhaled, the slight scent of wildflowers and vanilla drifting in the air because of their proximity. Her breath quickened, and he himself felt oddly warm in a soothing, comfortable way. The monster in his chest was purring in some strange semblance of enjoyment. He realized they were pressed against each other, her petite form fitting against his larger one as two pieces of a puzzle would.

"We could be great together," he said quietly, taking note of her half-closed eyes. Eyes that would open any moment. The moment could not last – he was no fool who thought it would – and nor did he want it to, in the rational depths of his mind. _Means to an end_. He wanted her as a slave to his cause, and only as that.

It still took an obscene amount of will to step back and pretend he wasn't affected at all.

She snapped back to awareness, cheeks flushed with brilliant color. He didn't know how he could ever have thought her hollow. She was bursting with life, erratic flares of that spring magic he'd felt before rolling off her in crashing waves. Watching her struggle to contain herself – sometimes, she was as expressive as an open book – and taking deep, steadying breaths, he felt a rush of vicious smugness overtake him.

"One day at Hogsmeade, no more than that, in return for three questions of my choosing regarding Grindelwald to be asked at any time," she said coolly, as if she were the one dictating the game they played. He let her believe what she wanted to. Capitulation was always sweet, even if he'd been expecting it.

The smile he gave her was almost genuine.

"Count on it."

* * *

><p>AN: I found this chapter hard to write, especially the long Tom POV - frankly, I find both Tom and Luna difficult characters to do justice, but Tom especially. This story is pretty challenging in terms of character development because both central characters are so tough. AND, if anyone is willing to beta, please PM me. I'll even offer cookies C:

FutureAuthoress176: I'm not sure I'll be writing anything from the future, but I might include a snippet - it'll probably be much lighter and sillier than all the TR stuff - as the next chapter to celebrate reaching the 10 chapter mark. A short interlude actually sounds pretty interesting.

samiamf69: Confirmed LunaxTom, yep!

Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed! And I wouldn't mind a few more for this chapter *nudge*


	12. Chapter 11

__**Chapter 11: Reversing Gravity  
><strong>

_Good Lord_. She honestly didn't know how Hermione could stand to have spent so much time in the library, surrounded by musty old newspapers that made Luna sneeze _constantly_. Stacks and stacks of journals and issues of the _Prophet _surrounded her like a veritable wall.

"Achoo!"

"Bless you." Sabine leaned forward to examine an article, a slight frown of concentration between her brows. "Not that I'm opposed to research, but why the sudden interest in Grindelwald?"

"It's always nice to have a working knowledge of current events," replied Luna, trying to flatten a certain piece of writing that had been left in a roll for perhaps a decade. "Why, if we didn't keep ahead of the game, we might not be able to detail conspiracy theories and prevent all the awful things that would occur. I remember there was one time the Aurors were conspiring to take down the Ministry with a combination of dark magic and gum disease."

"I'll take your word for it," her friend said drily, not looking entirely convinced. _Shame._

They were sorting the papers into two piles: the Grindelwald pile and the pile of papers who didn't mention him at all. Unfortunately, one was turning out to be greatly larger than the other – as in, three to just under two hundred. Of those three, one was a rather oblique sentence-long reference to Durmstrang ("Which is known for its endorsement of the Dark Arts, and home to award-winning student Gellert Grindelwald"), one was an equally brief mention in regards to Bathilda Bagshot, and the last the very issue that Cecelia had shown Luna regarding the war in Austria.

"You'd think that people would write a touch more about a rising Dark Lord in their midst."

"Not really," said Sabine, looking vaguely surprised. "No one writes about these things straight out. It's more rumor and speculation than anything else. Frankly, three articles are more than I expected to find."

Three articles, over a course of twenty years, if Luna remembered right from her history lessons. Never before had she thought she would regret not paying attention to Binns, but it seemed as if the day had come. What did she know for certain? He'd raised an army, to be certain, terrorized the witches and wizards of Europe (although Britain remained relatively unscathed but for a few incidents), and was the precursor to Lord Voldemort. Grindelwald could even be considered more successful. Why, then, was there so little literature about him? Voldemort had possessed widespread notoriety among newspapers.

As if reading her mind, Sabine shook her head. "It's complicated. I'm assuming many of your housemates' families are better informed than mine. In fact, I'm surprised your father hasn't told you more – he's right in the thick of it, from what I hear – "

"He's dead." It came out harsher than she'd meant it to. Perhaps it was from the influence of the old Luna Faulkner, who had loved her father in spite of his neglect after her mother's death. A cold, melancholy silence drifted over them.

"I'm sorry."

"I – I suppose you've gathered what this is about, then," Luna said, concealing the thin shield of water blurring her vision by perusing the first piece of paper she found. She grieved for a man she knew and did not know at the same time. "Not that I want to go do anything stupid. I just want to – to – "

"To _know_," Sabine finished softly. A hand clasped lightly over hers in show of support. Support that Luna was immensely thankful for, support like Neville and Harry had given her when they'd learned about Daddy. She missed everyone more than she could have imagined: Ginny's laugh, Ron's insensitivity, even Hermione's close-minded take on the world around her.

Sabine's voice brought her back to the present. "It's – the Ministry doesn't want too much about Grindelwald written. They're afraid that active opposition will make England a target, since he's clearly deliberately avoiding us at the moment – "

"I'm surprised that there hasn't been immense foreign pressure for us to get involved."

"For Professor _Dumbledore _to get involved, perhaps."

"Sensible people," Luna remarked without a trace of the mockery inlaid within the other's words, "as he does have a bit of a better track record than the Ministry, doesn't he?"

Courage snorted inside her head. _Miserable, spineless, incompetent cowards that they are_. She shushed him; it was something that would only improve with time, time that in the future, Kingsley devoted in order to create a government better than the one Rufus Scrimgeour left behind.

"Only slightly, I'm sure. Luna, I doubt we'll get any more out of this rubbish, but Ms. Bagshot is an old family friend."

"The historian?"

"And according to the society column of _The Hollows_, Grindelwald's _aunt_," the Hufflepuff said with a frown, tapping one of the articles. "I would never have guessed – she never mentioned it – "

"A fascinating conversation starter, for sure. 'Why, hello Mrs. Fortescue, how are you doing? Well, you know, that crazy great-nephew of mine just decided not to follow in his old man's footsteps after all. Aspiring to be a Dark Lord instead of a researcher, can you believe it!'"

Sabine laughed. "I can see why that might be a problem. I'll write her tonight anyway. And if you ever need anyone to talk you, I'll be here."

"Thank you," said Luna, touched by the offer and beaming. "You're a wonderful person, Sabine, even _if _you aren't guarding yourself from the nargles properly, and don't let anyone ever tell you otherwise."

"You really think so?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't I?"

"Because – oh, never mind. Just – would you put a good word in for me with Dolohov tomorrow?"

"I don't think that's a good idea. He's quite pretty and all," Luna attempted to sympathize, "but he's just so – _Wrackspurt-covered_."

"He's quite nice, actually. He was so friendly the other day – "

"But I suppose I couldsay something," she sighed, seeing that Sabine was not to be diverted. Not that she would, though she hadn't strictly lied. She still _could_. It just wasn't in the best interests of anyone to be saddled with Dolohov.

The instant gratitude coming her way made her feel guilty all the same.

* * *

><p>"Tardiness is rude."<p>

Riddle arched a dark eyebrow. "If I didn't know otherwise, I might even say you're eager to go."

"Well, I do enjoy the sunshine," she rejoined with a bright smile, "and it's a gorgeous day outside. What do they call that again? Juxtaposition?"

"Hilarious," he deadpanned.

She almost smiled.

Exiting the dorms, she wasn't at all surprised to see a group of Slytherins waiting. _Because God forbid his Dark Exaltedness have to walk an extra ten feet_, snarked Rationality. She waved the bunny off, choosing to examine faces instead: Malfoy, Lestrange, Dolohov, Nott, and Rosier.

"Rosier, the spinach looks good on you," Luna greeted him cheerfully as she spotted the dark spot on his front teeth. If looks could kill, she probably would have dropped dead on the spot.

She was quiet the rest of the walk to the Three Broomsticks. Instead of talking, she observed; the deference the group showed to Riddle was truly astounding. A miracle, really, that _anyone_ could missit, let alone the entirety of the Hogwarts population. It was far beyond respect, each little nod (or the occasional rapturous gaze from Lestrange that made something shift and curdle in her stomach).

And yet…was that resentment that flashed, every once in a while, in Abraxas Malfoy's eyes?

She shoved that interesting tidbit into a corner of her mind to be pondered later as the little group chose a corner table by a window and ordered their drinks. Luna had rather thought they'd engage in vampirism or the like, but if the Death-Eaters-to-be were going to be _boring_, there wouldn't be any complaints from her.

They were _gossiping_, of all things. She spaced out.

Students in black uniforms milled around in Hogsmeade, enjoying the fresh air and pointing at various items. A fountain lit up the square, sunlight glinting off droplets of water. How wonderful it would be to leap in and splash! And the top – it _did _look like a Crumple-Horned Snorkack horn – or – _was that _–

"Do _you _think I stand a chance with Walburga?"

With a jolt, Luna realized Nott had aimed the question at her, a friendly grin on his face. She paused for a moment to frame a response.

"No, I rather think she'll end up with Black," she answered thoughtfully, pursing her lips. "They usually marry within the family, don't they?"

Nott choked on his butterbeer. Beside him, Lestrange and Malfoy simultaneously broke into a coughing fit that sounded suspiciously like laughter. Rosier looked as if he'd swallowed a lemon; Dolohov seemed angry. And Riddle was utterly impassive except for the telltale gleam of amusement in his dark eyes.

Well, at least it was quiet.

…Luna started humming.

* * *

><p>Abraxas Malfoy was not stupid. Nor was he oblivious.<p>

Therefore, the presence of Luna Faulkner at their routine Hogsmeade meeting was definitely something warranting suspicion.

For one, the girl was astoundingly shallow. Well-connected, yes; wealthy, yes; passably pretty, perhaps. Her name _was _one on the list of potential betrothals, after all. But she had always been the type to flutter about gossiping about whatever it was girls gossiped about, concerned only with looking prettier than Lucretia at school dances. The only reason she was Head Girl was because her father was intimate chums with Dippet. Her sole redeeming quality was that she at least supported the pureblood ideals to a fault.

And then, three days into the school year, she had changed. Drastically.

Suddenly, Faulkner was acing her classes. Suddenly, she was standing in opposition to Riddle – when everyone knew she'd been hankering after him and all but slobbering for his attentions. Suddenly, she was a threat.

Abraxas had not forgotten when he'd called in a favor from Avery and spiked her water with Veritaserum, and she'd been clever and bold enough to transfer traces of it to him through a kiss. The prior Faulkner would never think to do something like that; the prior Faulkner would never have gotten Riddle's attention in the first place. And he could _feel _the charged air between the two, even now –

What had happened to Faulkner?

She was singing something utterly ridiculous now, apparently unaware that half the pub was watching her. Abraxas was torn between irritation at being seenwith her and curiosity at her antics. She put up such a convincing veneer of insanity.

"I didn't realize you were interested in Celtic ballads," Riddle commented, his dark eyes as unfathomable as always.

Faulkner smiled. "Is that what it is? I remember it from when Daddy and I went to Sweden, a long time from now. There were no Snorkacks there, but there were some lovely songs."

"My family vacations there every year, and I've never heard of those," Antonin said sharply.

"Pity. They're – "

She never managed to finish the sentence, because in that moment, pandemonium ensued.

"He's here," cried a bald, round man who burst into the room, wiping at his gleaming forehead. "Hogsmeade is under attack!"

"Madame Zelra's is burning!" came another shout.

"They're in Reddly's Emporium!"

_Who? What?_

The wall opposite him cracked – Abraxas watched in frozen horror as spindly black lines branched out with each resounding thud hitting against it –

_Merlin, it's going to _fall –

And Riddle rose as fluidly as always, his face one of interminable calm. His meaning was clear as he stalked toward the door, the frantic crowd parting in lieu of his purposeful strides. It was expected; he always managed to emanate power at will.

"This place is going to cave," he said curtly but clearly, pitching his voice so all could hear. His eyes met those of the gaping crowd. "I would take the opportunity to leave and take shelter in a small shop, one that's not likely to be a target."

It was as if a spell had been released as he turned to go. There was a flurry of movement; Abraxas pushed and shoved his way through, heart racing, the others close on his heels; the cracks continued to split. The dazzling sunlight hit him the exact moment stone crumbled at the mob's heels.

Riddle waited for them outside. There was a shimmering barrier of some sort surrounding their little group; around them, black-robed and hooded witches and wizards casted and shrieked with laughter as they terrorized the crowds.

"They won't reach us." Now that it was just them, the gleam of crimson in the other's eyes and interest in his voice as he surveyed the carnage was apparent. "Abraxas, Antonin, Thaddeus, Raphael – where is Faulkner?"

The chill in those last three words made Abraxas's blood run cold. The Slytherins remained silent.

"_Where_," Tom Riddle repeated in a deadly hiss, "_is she?_"

"We – we lost her in the fray, my lord." It was Antonin who spoke, his face pale. "There were so many people – "

"I would make you scream in pain, but I think leaving you to defend yourselves will achieve much the same result," Riddle said quietly.

"_My lord _– "

Abraxas's heart sank as the barrier disintegrated, Tom nowhere to be found.

* * *

><p>Tom made his way through the crowd in long, rapid strides, long legs and a few well placed charms carrying him past screaming students and frantic residents as if he were utterly insubstantial. A clever little trick he'd invented in his fifth year to reach the chamber undetected, it came in handy now, but he scarcely cared when usually he would have gloated in his own prodigious skill. His mind churned.<p>

Faulkner, with the unusual closeness to Dumbledore. Faulkner, quick with a wand. Faulkner, so different from before early this year; her father killed by Grindelwald; the ensuing attack in Hogsmeade.

_Faulkner, her hands on his soul_.

Coincidences, if taken one by one. But now that the chain of events had occurred, they no longer seemed so commonplace. He needed her alive to answer his questions.

The monster in his chest roared at the thought of his followers losing her. Those utter imbeciles. His lips twisted with sadistic amusement at the memory of their terror at being left in the fray as punishment for their failure. He knew their _lives_ were relatively safe, being of the pureblood elite. But safety from a few _crucios_, well, that was less certain.

Tom pictured her in his mind, tiny and ethereal, a pair of huge radish earrings dangling and swinging among wispy golden curls and whispered, "Point me."

His prized yew wand spun in his palm, blurring into a circle before finally settling towards the center of town, near the fountain. There she was, in action, lurching right and left with her strange grace as she dueled, streaks of light bursting from her hands. Two terrified third years stood behind her. Tom's lips curled in disgust. _Fool._ Faulkner drew attention, endangering herself. And for what? _Nobility_?

Almost lazily, he cast a silent Imperius Curse at a passing masked man in black robes. The attacker's will immediately collapsed against his. In a moment, Faulkner was disarmed, a red jet of magic from Tom's victim catching her off guard.

Tom smiled. He moved a few steps away, behind the wave of the crowd, before dissolving his glamour. _Endgame_.

Luna's heart was pounding. A sharp point pricked her neck, and she knew, looking at her captor's cruel, set mouth, that this was it. Her eyes closed. Perhaps it was a sign of how changed she was that she didn't truly care. Death, after all, was the next great adventure.

"I don't think so."

Her eyes flew open at that familiar cool baritone. It couldn't be. He would _never _lift a hand to help someone, let alone risk himself.

"Who dares?"

"It doesn't matter," Riddle said icily, his chiseled features a mask of determination. The three of them were beginning to attract a crowd. "Release her."

The man's wand dug deeper into her skin, drawing a hiss of pain from her in spite of herself. "Drop your wand, and I'll let her go. Don't, and she dies."

"How do I know you'll keep your word?"

"You don't."

_Well, _Luna thought resignedly, _this is it after all_.

The click of a wand clattering to the ground made her blood freeze. Her world tipped upside down. Since she was little, he had always been the bogeyman, the horror parents used to frighten their children. Why would he do something to save her? He was Lord Voldemort, who cared about no one, and would never do something so sacrificial, least of all for _her_.

Even worse was the rush of sudden fear as five wands rose to aim at his heart.

She could not let him die for her. She didn't know why – perhaps it was because if she did, she would not be able to live in the skewed world that would remain, always wondering _why _and _how _and if, somehow, they'd all gotten it terribly wrong in the future.

Full out panic. Something moved furiously in her chest, creating a loud thumping noise. She vaguely realized it was her heartbeat.

What could she do?What little wandless magic she knew was not enough to take out fifteen armed figures. She frantically cast her gaze around. Terrified people swarmed, shops burned, and the fountain behind her spouted water, pristine as ever –

The fountain.

Merlin, the _fountain_.

He would be safe. They would all be safe; she and Grindelwald's men were the only ones close enough to be harmed. What she had to do suddenly became the most obvious thing in the world. She focused on a small, jagged rock on the ground as if her life depended on it.

It shot into the air, a burst of movement, and then slammed into the Crumple-Horned-Snorkack-that-was-really-a-Erumpent's horn before anyone could react.

Luna heard a booming sound and briefly caught sight of flying marble chunks before her vision faded to black.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Oh, cliff hanger! :P **

**Thanks to Evette for betaing this and supplying secret (and awesome) ideas for the future.  
><strong>

**And, I really appreciated the reviews. As a writer, it's great to know that people are reading/enjoying the story! Feedback always motivates me to write more *wink*  
><strong>

**-Alle**


	13. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12: What Goes Up _Might _Come Down**

They were all falling. The row of black-robed wizards and witches tumbled like dominoes as the force of the explosion hit them, a tidal wave scattering inconsequential pieces of sea foam. More important, however, was that _she _was falling. A shard of stone slammed into her side, another piece catching her in the head as flames split the air.

For an infinitesimal moment, something cold and unpleasant seized Tom's chest. _If she died, he would never have his answers._

Perfectly rational.

Yet it was with a burst of entirely irrational fury that his magic obliterated the smoking remainders of the fountain even as her motionless form flew towards him.

His true wand – not the fake he'd dropped – doused the flickering fire dancing across her robes in seconds. When the glow had been vanquished, he almost regretted smothering the flames: its fierce light had obscured the pale lifelessness of her features; the slack, inanimate way her mouth, usually quirking with impudent laughter, settled in repose; and the distinct lack of a dreamy optimism always present within the planes of her face.

"What's wrong?"

He looked up to see Nott. The boy's clothing was torn, his tie askew, and his expression was harrowed and taut – guilty, almost. That regret was the only reason Tom managed to refrain from _crucio_ing him in broad daylight.

Instead, he turned to categorize the damage _objectively_, the brief dialogue returning him to his senses. First or second degree burns probably lay under the charred fabric of her uniform; he would also hazard a few broken ribs and a concussion from the impact.

"Nothing Madame Harrison can't fix." She deserved the injuries. His plan hadn't taken into account her erraticism, a mistake he would not make again. Still, he wondered what had possessed her to do something so monumentally stupid. She had to have known she was in range if she knew that the horn was so unstable.

It came to him, the absurdly obvious answer. She'd thought she was _sacrificing _herself for him.

_And fucking ruined his plan in the process._

But she had tried to save _him_. She'd put herself at risk, real risk, unlike the sham he'd orchestrated in order to her to bind her to him with chains heavier than metal. She must have known that there was a high chance of her own mortality with that stunt.

_No one had ever done that for him before._

Ruthlessly, Tom convinced himself all it meant was that Luna Faulkner was more of a naïve little fool than even he'd believed.

* * *

><p>A glimmer of emerald. It glinted at the edges of her vision, along with hair so very, very dark, and a pale face.<p>

"Harry?" she asked shyly.

No, Harry was not capable of the sneer that appeared when she called his name. She squinted, trying to see through the blur and the dull throbbing at the back of her head. Slowly, her sight cleared, sharpening enough for her to realize that it was _Riddle _who was steadying her against what remained of a ruined shop. Riddle, holding her upright with strong hands against the small of her back. Now that she was aware of the contact, tingles made their way up and down her spine.

With her heightened awareness came an onslaught of memory. She tore herself away and stumbled in the process. He made no move to catch her.

"Why did you save me?"

"Why did _you _try to save _me_?" he countered, ducking an errant spell as he began weaving away from the wreckage.

"Because it was the right thing to do." _Liar_, accused Compassion. _You were afraid that if he died for you, you would no longer be able to take the high moral ground, and then where would you be?_

"And the fact you could have died if you weren't obscenely lucky doesn't bother you at all."

She ignored the second part of that sarcastic sentence, glad to have something to focus on other than snarky inner voices as she trudged after him. "I didn't die. How did you shield me? I saw you drop your wand."

"Magic."

"Classic Riddle," she sighed at his evasive answer, then inhaled sharply as something jostled her midsection. Worse, a sharp, stinging pain was making itself known every time her burnt and torn robes touched against her skin. Disoriented, with objects swimming in her sight, she tripped over a stray purse some fleeing denizen had dropped –

–And found herself in his arms for the second time in mere minutes. He held her gently, encircling her waist right under where it hurt like a raging Heliopath had barreled into her, a wave of comforting strength making itself known past the haze of pain.

Gentle, a word she would never have associated with Lord Voldemort. But he was _not_ Lord Voldemort, at least not yet. Voldemort would never have helped her, never bothered to care.

A stolen diary for a _legilimens_, a strangling for a _crucio_, and now, a life for a life. How things had changed.

Her knees gave out. She sagged into his grasp, her head resting snugly in the crook between his biceps and his chest; a well-muscled one under the thick fabric, to her dismay. Firm and warm, not what she would have expected. It felt strangely…cozy. And nice. Very, very nice.

He made a noise that would, had it been anyone else, be called a grunt. "Merlin, you're heavy."

"…Have you ever had a girlfriend, Riddle?"

"Perhaps," he replied, a combination of surprise and irritation infusing his voice. "Interested?"

"No, not especially."

"Then why ask?"

Luna's eyelids fluttered as she fought the wave of unconsciousness that was threatening to overtake her.

"I was wondering how many times you've been dumped for calling a girl fat."

* * *

><p>"Luna! We were so worried – oh, I'm so glad you're alright!"<p>

"Of course I am," Luna said, propping herself up against the pillows. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Sabine and Nigel peered at her as if mentally dissecting her to see if she had sustained any permanent brain damage. Luna gingerly prodded her bandaged ribs, and then winced.

"I'd prefer _not_ to know why, on second thought. How is the village?"

"Damaged, and the residents are pretty shaken up, but recovering. The Aurors took care of the remainder of Grindelwald's men. But _you – _what were you _thinking_?" Nigel snapped, anger making itself apparent in the set of his jaw. "There's a reason why Aurors are so highly trained – you could have been _killed_ – "

"I'm fine," she interrupted, "and I could hardly have stood by and done nothing against those men."

Something odd flitted across his face. "You shouldn't involve yourself."

"Well, I think it was admirable," Sabine defended her, frowning. "Sarah Elliott just came up to express her thanks while you were sleeping, Luna. You saved her sister's life."

Luna was hardly listening by then. Her gaze was focused upon a small object – a notebook, of sorts, black and plain – sitting amid a, while not monstrously huge, significant number of chocolate and cards – that hadn't been there the last time she'd sorted through the pile. More specifically, the effortlessly precise script of the note on top caught her attention.

"'_My sincere wishes for a rapid recovery, as your lackluster efforts to match pace with me from the hospital wing would be even more irritating than you usually are. –T_._M.R._,'" she read aloud.

"Prat," remarked Nigel, crossing his arms and leaning against the window in the classic embodiment of nonchalance. "What kind of get-well card is that?"

A reluctant smile tugged at Luna's lips as she flipped through the first few pages. Filled to the margin with meticulously recorded equations and complicated theories regarding travel, never had his genius been more apparent – or appreciated. She didn't think she could handle another round of coddling and congratulations in the form of a well-meaning visit.

"Coming from him, this is sentimental. I think I'm touched."

"In the head, more like," her Ravenclaw friend muttered under his breath. Raising his voice to an audible volume, he asked, "When do you think you'll be cleared to leave the hospital wing?"

"As soon as Madame Harrison stops hallucinating," Luna said with a slight frown. "She keeps imagining things – 'honey, your burns aren't quite healed yet' or 'you need a good deal more rest.' I can't decide whether she's being haunted by a Fusser or a Nitwit."

The small group laughed.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, but if I may have a word alone with Miss Faulkner?"

Luna looked up, suddenly having to crane her head upward to see the newest visitor. Professor Dumbledore was so very _tall_.

"Professor," greeted Sabine, appearing unsurprised. "We'll be back soon, Luna – although here's hoping we won't have to be. Divination isn't the same without you." Grabbing Nigel's arm, she all but pulled him out of the room.

"Forceful young lady," remarked Dumbledore fondly. Shaking his head, he turned that twinkling blue gaze on Luna. "How are you feeling?"

"Sore," Luna admitted, "but better."

"I heard the explosion was quite violent."

"Of course. That horn at the top – it was an Erumpent horn. Famously unstable," she added, seeing that he recognized the term. "It's a miracle that no one set it off by accident years ago."

"So fortune favors the brave after all. We are all grateful for your knowledge, Miss Faulkner. You saved lives that day – particularly that of Mr. Riddle's."

Instantly, she was on the defensive without quite knowing why. "I could hardly let him die, seeing as he risked the same for me."

The old man paused.

"Uncharacteristic of him."

_Dumbledore could always see right through him_, she remembered Harry saying in a meadow one day in the time after, his jaw clenched and eyes flashing at the thought of his old nemesis. They had _hated _Riddle, she realized. Oh, she'd known that they'd despised the Dark Lord, but only now did she see that their antipathy towards Voldemort was every bit as strong – stronger, perhaps – as his towards them. If given a chance, even Ginny would have torn his throat out with her bare hands.

_Justified hatred_, Rationality assured her, but it was some utterly irrational part of her that caused her fists to clench.

"Why do you say that, Professor?"

"You know as well as I that Mr. Riddle does not usually commit selfless acts of sacrifice," the transfiguration teacher said gently, and, jolted out of a moment of temporary lunacy, Luna understood that he was being right and she was only being silly. Her fingers relaxed.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I don't know what came over me."

"There's no need to apologize. While I understand I am likely overstepping my boundaries, I did, however, come to offer you a warning."

"If it's about Riddle, then you don't need to say it." Her lips twitched in a wry smile. "I'm fully aware of what he's capable of."

Professor Dumbledore's gaze turned shrewd. "I daresay you might. Still, I would advise you not to become too close, lest you wind up burned."

* * *

><p>Riddle didn't visit her for the duration of her stay at the hospital wing. Frankly, she hadn't expected him to; the gift had been more than she'd expected. She occupied herself with making polite chitchat with the occasional visitor and working on the Portkey Project, as she'd dubbed it, while consuming copious numbers of Chocolate Frogs.<p>

She was released precisely two weeks after the Hogsmeade incident. Luna rather suspected that Madame Harrison had kept her for the maximum amount of time just to spite her for her "reckless, stupid actions." And when she made her first foray into the classroom, she discovered something astonishing.

Suddenly, she was a hero.

She had never been so before. No, Harry had been popular at times, with his fame and glory; Ginny had always been popular for her prettiness, her outgoing ways, and her athleticism; but Luna, while accepted and even admired, had never commanded the center of attention quite like she did now.

Septimus and Charles were constantly by her side, bringing their friends (and Quidditch team) with them. The Hufflepuffs adored her. The Ravenclaws sought her out to discuss Arithmancy and Runes theory. The Slytherins remained reticent but were now unfailingly courteous, and the younger years seemed to respect her far more than they had before. Through all of this, Sabine and Nigel were fiercely protective. Luna was enveloped in a social whirl without ever meaning to enter within the span of two days.

So it was no surprise to anyone in the school, save Luna herself, that Tom Riddle chose her to accompany his venerated self.

"Walk with me?" he asked her after Charms on the third afternoon since she returned to the Head Girl dorms. She started in surprise. To Courage's irritation, she had carefully avoided him, not knowing quite how to think or act. She'd been so successful in her endeavor that it was impossible that it hadn't been mutual.

"Since you've decided to acknowledge my existence again, how could I refuse?"

To her surprise, he smiled, a quirk of his lips so devastatingly charming that Luna was instantly on her guard. "Don't pin all the blame on me, Faulkner. I could hardly push through all of your admirers."

"I would have appreciated it if you did."

"I'm flattered. Is my company really all that valuable to you?"

"No," she chirped cheerfully, "but I would have enjoyed watching Rosier fall."

His smile grew wider, and then he laughed, a deep, silky chuckle, filling the empty hallway. They were undoubtedly late for class, but she didn't care. For the moment, all she wanted was to hear it again.

_Luna, get a grip_. _He's _Lord Voldemort_, _a voice reprimanded her sharply, and she snapped out of her daydream, face going stark white. _Lord Voldemort_. Suddenly, for the first time, a thought occurred to her, so obvious that she wondered why she hadn't thought of it before.

She was in the past. Couldn't she change the future? _Shouldn't _she change the future? Oh, she would not kill him – _could not_, now that he had saved her. But if he still held on to a shred of humanity, she could expound on it; if he did not, she could then justifiably tear him down. At the very least, she could find his secrets, his weaknesses, as a last resort in case she never managed to return home and he went down the same dark road in this timeline.

"Is something wrong?"

There was a furrow of concern between his eyebrows. To all appearances, it was utterly genuine. _He cared for her_. Her heart gave a funny little thump at the thought.

Her brain disagreed. _Don't trust him_.

_Or do both_, suggested Rationality. _Knowledge is power – pretend, and see what makes him tick. _Think_, Luna. You could prevent Daddy from ever dying_.

Hope stirring in spite of itself, she knew that she, and no one else, had trapped herself.

"No," she said, beaming at him, "I've never felt better – that is, due to you, of course. I never did get a chance to thank you."

"You don't need to," he replied smoothly, but a telltale glint in his dark eyes showed he was pleased. "I believe the favor was adequately returned when you single-handedly took down Grindelwald's army."

She blushed. "Don't be ridiculous – it was only twenty or so – "

"Twenty to one. If all our Aurors could win against such odds, I'd wager Britain would have driven Lord Grindelwald off the Continent years ago. Clever, to recognize the Erumpent horn for what it was."

Startled, Luna met his searching gaze. "You knew?"

"While I don't claim to be the expert on magical creatures you seem to be, I am fairly well-read on the subject," Riddle said dryly. _Of course. _He had probably gone through the entire Hogwarts library. She would never have thought Lord Voldemort a scholar until she'd arrived in this strange time. But the fact that he out of all people knew of them, the creatures she alone always believed in, did something to her already racing pulse.

"And the Snorkacks? The Whifflers? The Moon Frogs?"

"'Crumple-horned Snorkack: elusive creature rumored to live in the alps of Sweden,'" he quoted. "Although I can't say I've seen it elsewhere than in _Anatomy of Myths_. An eidetic memory does help in one's studies."

"So _that _explains why your grades are better than mine. I've always known that I would win in a contest of brains alone."

His eyes flashed, seeming to pull the lightness out of the air. _Careful_, they read, but the instant passed, and he was all easy elegance once more as if his anger had never been. It was over so fast that she wondered if she'd imagined it like so many other things.

"Grindelwald," she said abruptly. "You promised to tell me about Grindelwald."

"Of course. I keep my promises," he murmured, close enough to graze her ear with his cool breath. His very proximity, the ever present call of his delicious, _dangerous _magic, made her feel lightheaded as never before. "After you, Miss Faulkner?"

It was with a start that she realized they were at the door of D.A.D.A., their professor appearing none too pleased. Shaken, she walked in unthinkingly as he took his seat across the room. So engrossed in her thoughts was she that she failed to see the smile of satisfaction on Tom Riddle's face – the smile of a cat who had caught the mouse neatly in its grasp.

* * *

><p>"I trust everyone is aware of their instructions and will remember them come Saturday," said Tom, addressing the prefects gathered in the room.<p>

The gathered students nodded, excitement written plainly in their midst. He could see he had chosen well. For the purebloods, it was a reassurance of his inclination toward their ideals; for the others, a chance to join in the mysterious ways of those of ancient lineage, a way of feeling included, for once, in that elegant, exclusive set of the wizarding elite, and the beginnings of attracting them to his supporting base.

_Oh, Faulkner_. Whatever nefarious deeds she had dreamed up were never planned in the first place, he thought, amused as he met her steady blue gaze. It was a purely political move to start with. Still, the fact that she had grasped some ulterior motive was impressive. Her uncommon perception would be useful, so long as he was the one wielding it.

He held up a hand as the students began to leave. The crowd stopped in its tracks. "One more thing," he called. "The patrol schedules have been rewritten at the request of one of our faculty members and are posted on the wall outside the door."

To his surprise, she waited while the room emptied, not darting away as soon as she could as in the previous meetings. Tom inwardly gloated. His ploy during the battle was an undisputable success.

"When are our patrols, Riddle?" Always direct. He found it oddly refreshing for one of Slytherin House, as annoying as it was – then again, they all irritated him. She was at least an original at doing so.

"Was I that obvious?"

"Hardly, but when Dumbledore all but ordered you to rearrange them after that unfortunate incident in the hall…" She trailed off, shrugging delicately. The motion made him focus on the slender curve of her shoulders and her graceful neck. She was not beautiful, Tom observed critically. A long descent from the imperious splendor of Lucretia Black, or even the doe-eyed exquisiteness of Cecelia Avery. Yet, there was something else that drew the eye if one knew what to look for.

"Tuesdays and Saturdays," Tom said, enjoying the way she visibly heated, uncomfortable under his slow perusal. "I figured we should try to space our meetings through the week to prevent further damage to the building."

That drew a reluctant smile.

The monster roared in exultation – _closer_. There was a chink in everyone's armor, and he was chipping away at hers. He hadn't had a challenge like Faulkner for a very long time. With each unwitting concession she made, the chase grew more thrilling.

"Any vandalism is entirely your fault."

"_I_ have never damaged school property until those two duels. But Trelawney's table –"

"Lisette," he heard her grumble under her breath, astutely identifying his source. Her sharp scrutiny fell on him. "You gossip about me?"

"No," he clarified lightly, offering her an unrepentant grin. "_She_ gossips. I only listen and encourage."

She burst into laughter. It was airy and pleasant and entirely artless, like the twinkling of bells or the soft splashing of a small waterfall that tore any remaining wariness from her visage.

"You still owe me that information," she said when her mirth subsided.

Dog with a bone, regarding Grindelwald. Tom remained perfectly composed; to show his suspicion through narrowed eyes would be the work of an amateur. He would oblige her, of course. _His _sharing of information would give him an opportunity to examine her reactions. In fact, if he orchestrated this little battle in their war well enough, he would learn far more about her than she from him.

"What do you want to know?"

She bit her lip. "Where is he from?"

"He went to Durmstrang, so presumably around that region. Was expelled – a difficult feat, considering how tolerant of the Dark Arts they are there – and spent a few summers in England. After that, he disappeared from the map for the next ten years."

She already knew all of this. It was clear from the stubborn set of her chin, the lack of curiosity in her too expressive eyes.

"And he wants?"

"What any Dark Lord wants. To subjugate the muggles, ensure the superiority of the pureblood, etcetera."

Her posture was frozen – too still, too stiff. He was not surprised that she was opposed to the idea. Foolish, _kind-hearted _Faulkner, but not too good to use artifice to blast twenty men to pieces. There was potential there, if he could twist it to his cause.

"You agree with him."

It was not a question.

He tipped his head slowly. Perceptive, _too perceptive_. He had never let his disgust for Muggles show – he'd learned it was a mistake with Dumbledore all those years ago, and Tom Riddle did not repeat his mistakes. But she had guessed nevertheless.

_Oh, she would be useful_.

"The current state of affairs is unsustainable," Tom said, choosing his words with care. "The Statute of Secrecy will not last forever, and the non-magicals are inherently non-tolerant. I do not want to eradicate them – I merely advocate a stronger state of separation."

"The muggle-born."

_Filthy muggles and their offspring_.

"They are security risks. I believe they should be taken and inducted into our society at birth. In addition, strong magical wards should be put into place to isolate wizarding communities from the mundane – if the muggles destroy themselves, which they undoubtedly will in time, we must be safe and ready."

"You do not want to kill them?"

Her brows moved slightly, as if in surprise. He frowned. Did she think him stupid? While he had no moral qualms regarding the matter, there were simply too many of them – it was an impossible task. Besides, he doubted the majority of the population would consider genocide acceptable.

"Not especially, no," he said nonchalantly. "Any other questions regarding my political beliefs, Faulkner? Or is the interrogation over?"

Crimson stained her translucent cheeks.

"No more questions," she said shakily, as if the world had been pulled out from beneath her feet. "I – goodnight, Riddle."

"Tom," he corrected.

"Pardon?"

"Call me Tom." He flashed another disarming smile at her, swallowing his hatred of the all-too-common moniker his weak mother had bestowed upon him. "I think we've at least made it to the acquaintance stage."

A corner of those full lips quirked in response.

"I suppose so," she agreed as she rose to leave. "Goodnight, _Tom_."

Later, he would fiercely deny the small burst of pleasure that flooded his chest at the sound of his name in her lilting voice.

* * *

><p><em>He was lying. He had to be.<em>

God, he'd sounded so reasonable, so persuasive, she had almost been won over. Tom Riddle could charm a snake out of its skin, she reminded herself, but the reassurance felt hollow – what he'd said made so much goddamn sense that she wanted to smash something.

The muggles _had _been steadily pushing toward ruin in her time. She remembered a long, serious talk between Hermione and Kingsley about their rapid consumption of resources and the myriad troubles that polluted the non-magical world. And many _were _intolerant – she had no doubt that some of them were good, but she remembered Harry's stories of being locked in a cupboard under the stairs for most of his childhood. Riddle's vision of separation was very possibly the only way to avoid destruction.

So, either he had lied about his current views, or he changed drastically between his Hogwarts years and the 1980s, where he murdered and rampaged and caused so much destruction. He was ruthless now, but still sane; when had he become the fanatical monster of the future?

For that matter, when had his appearance changed to that snakelike construction? When had his body decayed along with his mind?

And then she remembered the bursts of red that flashed occasionally in Riddle's eyes even now, and that he eventually split his soul into seven pieces until that beautiful shade of green was entirely gone – likely rendering his humanity apart with his quest for immortality. _Horcruxes_. The missing piece of the puzzle. One did not tear their soul and come out unscathed.

_He drove himself insane_, she realized.

_What a waste_, came the second, equally frightening whisper.

Utterly confused, Luna did not sleep that night.

* * *

><p>AN: A longer chapter _and _a shorter wait time! Thanks for all the reviews/encouragement :3 Of course, reviews are always appreciated.

Again, thanks to Evette for beta-ing and plot bunny help!

-Allarice


	14. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13: Of Mothers, Earthvines, and Selfies**

"Merlin, what a mess," Sabine remarked, throwing her hands up in frustration.

It was the night of the Samhain festival. The section of activity supervised by Riddle had gone off without a hitch, as expected. No, it was decorating for the dance that was difficult. Even with the support of Sabine, whom Luna had expressly recruited for the purpose of charming various pieces of foliage, coordinating the prefects according to Riddle's methodology was nearly impossible. The solution (to Luna) was therefore obvious: avoid Riddle's methodology at all costs.

"_Sonorus_," Luna cast, pointing at her throat. "Attention, please?"

The room hushed. She smiled.

"This," she said, indicating the drooping garlands arranged in a perfect grid with a grand, sweeping gesture, "is aesthetically horrid. Too many squares and not enough circles. Could everyone pick a set of materials to stand by?"

Visibly confused, the prefects did as they were told. Perhaps there was some value in being on the right side of public opinion after all.

"That's wonderful! You all may do whatever you'd like with whatever you chose. That will be all."

The minute Luna ended the Amplifying Charm, Sabine grabbed her by the arm.

"Are you _insane_?" her friend hissed.

"Have some faith. Samhain is supposed to be wild and unrestrained." Immune to Sabine's skeptical glance, Luna bobbed her head in a quick, birdlike manner. "We can always reorganize if necessary."

"True," Sabine conceded grudgingly.

Two hours later, the dance floor was finished.

They had decided to hold the entire event outdoors. In the center, under the clear night sky, a towering pillar of fire that was easily fifty feet high, composed of brilliant, colored flames, served as the bonfire. Looking at the tight structure, the artfully orchestrated swaying lights, and the way heat evenly warmed the entire area, Luna recognized mastery-level (or perhaps even beyond) charms work when she saw it. Tom Riddle was many things, but a mediocre wizard he was not.

"You're impressed."

"You've been holding out on our work," she noted evenly.

Riddle raised an eyebrow, having approached her from behind. "I amend my statement. You aren't impressed, because you have an exceedingly high opinion of me already."

"Your skill has never been in question."

"I don't doubt yours either – the dance floor turned out almostas wonderfully as the bonfire."

_Smooth_, snarked Rationality, rolling his eyes.

She cast a glance at the games, the piles of sweets heaped on an enchanted table, the trees that had somehow twisted themselves into a sparkling wall to enclose an area roughly the size of the Great Hall. Above, the clear night sky was lit by stars and moon, black velvet and white beading. Glowing flowers provided lighting closer to the ground. Perhaps a little subtler, quieter than the massive bonfire, but beautiful all the same.

"A backhanded compliment. Thank you."

"The pleasure is all mine," said Riddle, amusement playing at the corners of thin, shapely lips. "You aren't going to go to primp and preen with the rest of the students?"

"Whatever's there will always remain visible to anyone who can see. Your excuse?"

"I don't need to."

In spite of her rising melancholy, she almost smiled. She couldn't, however, quite muster the movement. It had been exactly a decade ago that she'd lost –

_Merlin_. She was ridiculous. Ten years, and she still hadn't managed to let go.

Oh, she wasn't utterly devastated, forever avoiding emotional attachments, or anything like that. She'd moved on to live her life as she saw fit. It was only this day each year that she was reminded of – hammered with, almost – her loss.

Memories, faint scraps worn down with time, of gentle laughter and fairy tales at night brought a lump to her throat. Lavender, she remembered, always the smell of lavender.

_Please don't let me inexplicably burst into tears in front of Minimort_.

Yet, from the stinging in her eyes, that seemed like exactly what she was about to do. _A little embarrassment never killed any turtles_, Compassion tried to console. It didn't work. Blindly, Luna turned to hide her face – and promptly stumbled over one of the floor lights in the process.

He caught her before she could hit the ground.

His embrace was warm and solid, stabilizing in its hold on her, keeping her aloft and on her feet. Just as she remembered from after the fight in Hogsmeade. Although there was a portion of her mind that pleaded with her to remove herself from his grasp, namely Rationality, she couldn't bring herself to. Because in his arms, for some inexplicable reason, she knew she was (for however brief a time) safe from everything with the exception of Riddle himself.

Riddle, who was probably the greatest threat to her in existence.

But for some reason or another, she couldn't make herself care.

* * *

><p>When the moment faded away, reality settled in, bludgeoning them both. Tom released her as if scalded; Faulkner jumped backwards like a skittish animal. He was breathing slightly harder than the simple act warranted, heart rate a hair faster for reasons he couldn't name.<p>

_Merely the thrill of success._ He had, after all, gotten under her skin. It was obvious from the brilliant flush of her cheeks, the way she'd leaned in until separated by a mere centimeter as they danced. Just one more way to infatuate her. A step nearer her secrets and her loyalty.

"The students will be here soon," she commented with a forced sort of gaiety, but the slight tremor in her voice betrayed her.

"Ashamed to be seen with me?"

"Not quite. I – I don't know what came over me."

_Neither do I_, rose the unbidden thought that he immediately brushed away as falsehood born of the slightly unsettling effect the night was having on him.

"Samhain can be a narcotic," he said calmly. It wouldn't do to scare her away, and he could see that she was a step away from bolting. He almost frowned. _She _had asked _him_, not the other way around. Why was she so…nervous? Tense? _Impossible girl._

And, by Merlin, he was Tom Riddle. The pre-accident Luna Faulkner and more than half the girls at Hogwarts, stupid creatures that they were, chased him as if their very lives depended on it. A brief touch of comfort shouldn't make the recipient look as if they were about to vomit.

"You're scowling."

Damn it, he was.

"And you look ill. Have a drink."

"Only if this one is potion free."

Irritation sparked, tempered by dark satisfaction. Abraxas had screamed for his incompetence after that miserable failure._ If I ever decide to poison you, you wouldn't be expecting it._

"Of course."

She cast him a suspicious glance before steeling herself and resolutely downing the glass of cold water he pressed into her hand in one distinctly unladylike gulp. "Refreshing," she lauded, sounding genuinely grateful as a smidgen of pink briefly returned to her cheeks.

Still, judging from the pallor that hadn't yet truly receded, he decided not to push too hard tonight. Tom owed his success in no small part to his gift at reading others, and Luna Faulkner appeared about to shatter – and not in a way that would benefit him.

But taking advantage…that was another story.

"Are you feeling alright?" he inquired solicitously. "If you need assistance – "

"Not from you," she interrupted, somehow excluding even a hint of knowledge that she was being utterly offensive. "Samhain is – it's not a good time for me."

"Of course not. A squadron of dark wizards can be taken care of like clockwork, but a holiday? Terrible business, that."

"Are you _teasing _me?"

He almost smiled at her wide-eyed incredulity.

"Only if you want me to be."

"You know, tonight…I think I almost like you," she decided, skipping towards the refreshment table to pour another glass of water. Her gait, however, was uneven, so very unlike the almost spritely floating quality she usually possessed. Tom's eyes narrowed.

"Tell me what's wrong," he demanded. Warily, she eyed him, and in that moment, Tom imagined that her brilliant gaze could cut through deception like a knife. In spite of that – or perhaps because of it – he summoned a thick coat of concern, layering it around his voice, weaving it into his expression.

"Why does it matter to you?"

"Polite inquiry? Perhaps I don't want to see the effort I expended to keep you safe in Hogsmeade wasted. Or I might even be mildly concerned for your well-being out of the goodness of my heart." He shrugged, lightening the act. "Your choice."

"It's only the Wrackspurts."

Too much blinking. _She was lying_. While there was undoubtedly indignant anger at the thought that she dared lie to _him_, it was remarkably and unusually contained, a drop instead of a full-blown tsunami. He found himself more intrigued – what was it about this night that made the unflappable Luna Faulkner look about to faint? The only other time she had appeared this rattled was when she had lost her father –

"It's the anniversary of someone's death," he deducted with calm, calculated certainty. She went utterly white and still under his sharp scrutiny_._ "Not recently, or I would have noticed it in the obituary section of the _Prophet_. Considering how affected you remain – a family member? Your father passed under a month ago – your mother – "

"_Stop_."

For some reason, he did.

There was a nearly wild quality present as she shook her head, flaxen curls flying around her luminous, heart-shaped face. She was clearly distressed; her plump bottom lip was bleeding, as if she'd bitten into it too hard without noticing the pain.

_Careful, Tom. You're blurring the line – she's about to break_.

"I apologize," he said quietly. The two words – usually so hard to force out, so false, so bitter – dropped from his tongue easily, almost as if he meant them. _Almost_.

She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. It was fascinating, how she calmed herself; her shaking fists gradually unclenched, and her shoulders loosened, until she regained her usual relaxed, open stance. Except…under the veneer of spontaneous eccentricity, there was a cool, deliberate quality he had somehow missed until now. As facetious as she seemed, Luna Faulkner was very much in control of herself.

She was also very possibly the most riveting creature he'd ever met.

"You're right," she admitted, so softly that he might have missed it if not for a flutter of golden eyelashes in his peripheral vision. "It was my mother."

It would have been easy to give false sympathy to anyone else, honeyed words sliding out from between gleaming white teeth. But despite her obvious emotional fragility, her stare was as piercing as ever, and Tom instinctively knew that this was one phrase was one that could not achieve even a semblance of truth.

"I don't understand," he affirmed instead.

She blinked twice, unconsciously moving a pale hand to her throat before a smile touched her face. It was not her carefree one. Instead, it was thin and sharp, with, enigmatically enough, a layer of half-weary, half-mocking bitterness. It also appeared utterly out of place on the smooth lines of her stubborn yet imperturbable mouth.

"I don't suppose you would."

Something unfamiliar in him stirred. _Heartless. Unsettled by her recognition of what you really are?_

"What I meant was that I never knew my mother. She died when I was very young."

"Did you ever wish that you did – know her, I mean?"

_A thousand times._

"No," he answered flatly.

To his surprise, her lips curved into a small, knowing grin. Tom itched to curse it off her face.

"Liar," she remarked in her dreamy way as she stared straight at him – almost as if she could see _through _him.

His grip on his wand clenched. A dizzying vision of her under the Cruciatius – _No. _He would break her later. For now, the priority was still divesting Faulkner of her secrets and gaining her loyalty. _Neutralize the threat first._

"Perhaps I did, once," he allowed. Her eyebrows rose in surprise that she was unable to hide. "But I realized that I was wasting time on futile dreams." _And that both she and my father deserved their respective ends._

"You're utterly bound by the Earthvines."

"Earthvines don't – "

"All dreams are futile if you think of them that way," she interrupted matter-of-factly. "Dreams are special and separate from _goals_. They don't have to be achievable. They provide us with something beyond the pragmatic, the mundane."

White hot anger rose within him. _He was not the mundane, and never would be._ He prepared a curse, some sort of violent pain to punish her for _daring _to insinuate he was – and let it fall.

Color had flushed her cheeks, as if lecturing him drove her demons away. The blush of rose suited her, pulled her back from the abyss of…normality. Of losing the luster that was part of what made her unique and worthy of his attention.

He didn't ever want to see her without it again.

So he contained his anger and boxed it away for a later date. If she needed an argument now to distract her, he would oblige.

"Your dreams bar you from reality. The time to accept that _she is dead _has come and passed."

"She's there, you know, just behind the veil. Those we love never truly leave us."

"Then by your logic: if she remains with you, then there is no need to grieve for her."

His slightly mocking words made her look up in a sharp, bird-like movement, as if he had brought her out of a memory and back to the present. Her eyes were contemplative – not quite warm and shining, but distinctly softer than he'd ever seen them.

"Thank you."

He didn't understand it. Sunshine washed over his skin, a glow of pleasure at that small phrase saying so little and so much. It frightened him. His grasp on the mask tightened on reflex; he used it to rein the situation back under control.

"Thank me by being cheerful for the prefects, lest Fortescue decide that I scarred you for life." He gave her a crooked smile of sorts. "Your friends are…terrifying."

"I can't quite say the same for your minions," she quipped, the ever-present spark of irreverent mischief returning in her mock glare. He couldn't hold back his laughter. Salazar, the number of times he'd thought that exact thing.

"Considering the raw material I started with, there's been a substantial level of progress already. At least Goyle is mostly literate now."

"Mostly?"

"He still occasionally struggles with polysyllabic words." She struggled to hide her amusement at his deadpan statement. _Not so morally uptight that she can't laugh at the expense of others, then_. "Evan and Abraxas, on the other hand, are considerably more erudite."

"Malfoy is a connoisseur of the arts?"

"Dilettante. How did you guess?"

"The framed paintings of peacocks I saw being delivered to the Slytherin common room were something of a giveaway," said Faulkner dryly. "And Rosier?"

"A collector of flattery."

"Ah."

"Evan is also under the unfortunate impression that the larger the words he uses, the more favored he will become."

A tiny crease made its way between her brows.

"If you dislike your friends, why do you spend time with them?"

_Because they are from powerful families _and _easy to manipulate. _

"Contrary to your belief, I enjoy their company above that of others."

"I never said you didn't, considering the level of regard you hold everyone else. For a misanthrope like you, there's no need to constantly socialize." She waved carelessly at the castle, ignoring Tom's frozen smile. "Hogwarts is full of the petty power plays of children. Their combined ability doesn't come even close to matching yours. Spend your time honing your magical skills instead, and after you graduate, focus your efforts on the adults – and avoid the annoyance of unnecessary human contact."

_Danger. Threat. …Knowledge. Power._

"Your perception is astounding," he murmured softly, once his still icy lips, immobilized by shock, could move again. He examined her with a piercing stare. "In fact, it's as almost as if you know me better than myself."

"Those who are blocked by the Selfies are not often disillusioned."

"Pardon?"

She tilted her head as if he was a specimen she needed to observe from every angle. "You answered my question in a roundabout way, so I decided to do the same for you."

"I – "

"Luna?"

Tom barely managed to retain control of his magic at the furious wave of irritation that swept over him at the sight of Greengrass.

"Nigel, you're early!"

The redhead grinned.

"I came to help set up, but it looks like you don't need me. This place is great!"

"You're sweet," Faulkner beamed_._ Five descriptive letters of meaningless, cloying sentimentality. It inexplicably made Tom want to see how the Ravenclaw would appear disemboweled.

"_Sweet_? I prefer something more manly, like – "

"Greengrass," Tom interjected smoothly, curbing his sudden irritation with a vengeance. "What an unexpected pleasure."

"Hey, Riddle," said Greengrass with an apologetic smile. "I need to borrow Luna for a bit, sorry."

_Faulkner was _his_ and no one else's._

Tom forced a pleasant nod.

"By all means."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **This one's really short, so I just posted it (non-betaed) to show that I'm still around (and updating). The next one will be a lot more interesting...

I really can't express how much the reviews mean to me. And lady madland, you might get your wish :P

-Alle


	15. Chapter 14

**14. Moglies and Mist**

Luna followed Nigel into a shadowy corner of the dance floor.

"Dirigible plum?" she offered, reaching into her pockets to fish out a piece of bright fuchsia fruit when they stopped. He grinned at it, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

"Dare I try one?"

"Well, they _are_ rumored to be highly intoxicating. Hangover inducing, you understand."

"If there's alcohol, how can I refuse?" Sinking his teeth into the radish-like object, he promptly spat it out, sputtering. "…What's in this, Firewhiskey?"

"Only if you ferment it."

He snorted. "I'll keep that in mind. In all seriousness, though, I did have something to talk to you about."

"Chirp away," Luna invited brightly.

"Had your father ever mentioned his will to you?"

Faintly uneasy at the sudden intensity of his bright blue gaze, she slowly shook her head. "I don't think so. Father always believed he was invincible – I didn't even know he _had _a will, to be honest."

"That's probably because he stipulated a betrothal in case of his death."

"A betrothal?" she repeated blankly.

Nigel frowned, an uncertain furrow carved between thick brows. The angle of the dim lights cast half his face into sharp relief; in profile, he appeared far less boyish. _Almost – _but she was just being silly. This was _Nigel_, one of her only true friends in this time, who'd shown his compassion on more than one occasion. "He didn't believe that he was invincible at all, Luna. I think he knew."

_Knew that he would be murdered._

All air escaped her lungs and refused to return.

"He wanted you to be safe," he continued, but he seemed very far away, not quite of this world. "After what happened with Gladys – "

_Gladys. _

_A sunny day. Too sunny. Bright white rays reflected off a gleaming knife blade. Green-gray terror. Something touched her shoulder. The panic seized her too; her heart seemed to stop working, and her wand reflexively pinpointed the nearest throat, magic gathering for a curse –_

And the gentle pressure grew heavier as strong hands burrowed into her skin, the tangible pain shocking her out of her fantastic absorption. Loud gasps rang out through the harsh stillness. As she reoriented herself, she realized with no small amount of shock that she was the culprit.

"Nigel, I didn't mean – "

"Actually, _Tom _would prefer it if you took your wand off his jugular."

Luna's tenuous control fled at that smooth baritone. Whirling around, she met a cool, dark gaze, stirring with the vaguest signs of hostility.

"You startled me!"

"Apparently." He stared past her to Nigel, brushing her off as if she were no more than a feebly fluttering Flibberfly. "What did you do to her?"

"That's none of your business."

Luna watched as if Stupefied – was Nigel stupid, to oppose the Dark Lord? And Riddle, _defending her_?

"My business? I was merely saving you from embarrassment, Greengrass. If Hogwarts's new savior was found to be so disturbed, especially by someone with such unsavory rumors swirling around him – " Riddle examined long, elegant nails in a parody of nonchalance. "Well."

Hatred blazed in Nigel's face. "I did nothing."

"You upset her to the extent that she was choking." Riddle's voice was lethally soft. "Perhaps a little reminder of how much that feels like 'nothing' is in order?"

Terror for Nigel overcame Luna's petrified state.

"Spells," she blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "Tom, I promised to teach you _Cavernis_, remember?"

He stiffened, slight wariness making its way into deep green pools. "What of it?"

"Let's go now."

And casting an apologetic look at Nigel, she turned sharply on her heel and walked away.

* * *

><p>It was a long, silent trek to the far meadow, away from any and all other students and professors. Luna kept a wary eye on Riddle as he sprawled on one of the comfortable Samhain-themed constructs, an impossibly languid movement given his perfect posture. Just because the Wrackspurts were hiding didn't mean that they weren't there.<p>

"Let's see it," he drawled.

"Pardon?"

"The spell. Unless it's a bad time – ?"

"I wouldn't have pulled you from the party if it was," Luna pointed out. His easy smile made her stomach turn, a not-entirely-unpleasant flock of unruly dragonflies flittering inside. _What was he playing at?_

He raised his eyebrows and waited.

Reluctantly, she drew her wand and pointed at a Moonberry bush. Swish, flick, swipe. "_Cavernis_!"

Nothing.

Luna stared at her hand in disbelief, then aimed a scathing glare at Riddle.

"You knew," she accused, irritation seeping out at how absurdly smug he could appear without any sort of facial expression. Perhaps his ego was so large that it required separate manifestation.

"Light witch, dark spell – remember that conversation we had about Samhain's polarizing properties?"

_Stupid_, berated Rationality. It took an inordinate amount of effort to keep the self-deprecating "duh" from making an entrance. Instead, her eyes widened in guileless bewilderment. "I can't possibly be a light witch. I'm a Slytherin, remember?"

"You liveto destroy societal norms," Riddle said dryly, giving Luna a slow perusal. Unlike most other teenage boys of her acquaintance, his eyes lingered not on her not-nonexistent chest but instead on the radish earrings and corkscrew necklace to emphasize his point. Then again, Riddle wasn't the average going-on-eighteen in any aspect. (And she didn'twant the Dark Lord ogling her. Really, she _didn't_.)

Luna beamed.

"Really, Tom, that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me! Freeing the sheeple from their horrendous oppressors of imagination has been Daddy and I's goal since I was five, you know."

His lips twitched. "Sheeple?"

"Sheep and people, although the difference is so indistinguishable that the two words are really somewhat redundant – "

"I understand, thank you," he said, gratitude dripping with sarcasm.

"Oh, good. I wasn't sure."

"You take such a low view of my intelligence."

"Or maybe you take an exceptionally high one."

For a fleeting moment, Luna thought he would curse her. But it was a low chuckle rather than an incantation that was voiced: a deep, smooth sound of genuine humor.

"Perhaps," Riddle allowed. Keen eyes assessed her, a panther's looking for blind spots in its prey. "But questions of intelligence aside, I am not so easily distracted. Who is Gladys?"

_Her wand glowed green as her terror flooded into it, small knuckles white. She had to make them go away. Or at least away from –_

Her temples throbbed.

"Can't remember." Her voice – Luna Faulkner's voice – was shaking. Gladys, the little girl in the first memory of Luna Faulkner's she'd ever seen, back in Professor Dumbledore's office more than a month ago. Whose very mention sent the Queen of Migraines hurtling at her mind like an attacking canine.

"Can't, or don't want to?"

She swallowed. "Both."

"But Greengrass knows." His expression was inscrutable.

"Yes, _Nigel _does."

"And you're not worried by that?"

She jerked. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"He seems to know a library's worth of information about you. More than you know about yourself, in fact, due to your amnesia. You were also very much estranged up until your accident."

"So?"

Riddle shrugged one shoulder, an elegantly nonchalant gesture that grated on Luna's nerves. "There's a distinct possibility he's taking advantage of you."

"Nigel would never!" she exclaimed furiously. "He's my _friend_ – "

"Is he?" He leaned forward, velvety baritone suddenly low and intense. "_You_ may have forgotten the reasons behind your mutual antipathy, Luna, but I assure you, he has not. And with your memory being a blank slate and his extensive knowledge of your history, it would be quite easy for him to enact whatever plans he sees fit."

"You're lying."

Crimson lips twisted into a sneer. "So sure of yourself."

"More so than I'm sure of you." The high, cutting laugh didn't sound like hers. "You _crucio_ed me – "

"Not without extreme provocation," he parried coldly, "and I also _saved your life_. If I truly wished you harm, I would have left you to die."

_Lord Voldemort is a master of deceit_, warned Rationality.

But…Morgana, Riddle had a point. Nigel had carried a chip on his shoulder the first time they'd met. They had a history she knew nothing of; he had called her names. And then, suddenly, that day at the lake he turned a complete one-eighty. A spin that stemmed from his certainty that she was "different" – that she'd lost her memory? That she was open to manipulation? Nigel had both method and motive –

_No!_

"Nigel Greengrass is worth ten of you," she bit out.

Riddle's eyes flashed as he stood, cushions scattering on the floor. "I'm trying to ensure your wellbeing, and you're making it extremely difficult – "

"Why do you even care?"

She didn't realize she was shouting until she heard the frozen silence. Seconds passed, the clock ticking with disturbing regularity in the corner as he stared at her. A muscle jumped in his jaw. _He's angry_.

She should have been afraid. Really, she _needed _to be afraid. But all she could think was that the miniscule movement in the granite mask made him seem a tiny bit human.

"Does it matter? You've made it quite clear you don't trust me."

It would be so easy to agree. In fact, it was probably true: she expected him to lie, to steal, to murder. _Then again_, whispered traitorous Rationality, _you also expected him to let you die._

"No, I don't," she murmured. Her gaze found shuttered viridian eyes, almost glowing green in the darkness. "But – Riddle – I – " Her tongue felt clumsy and twisted in her mouth, unable to form the right words. "I – I don't _not _– I respect you."

And, with a jolt, she realized it was true.

She might not trust him, but her respect – his unerring logic, his brilliant mind, his easy dealings with his teachers and peers, his inexplicable concern for her, his well-reasoned moderate stance on the Muggles (whether or not she agreed), and the fact that he had _risked his life _to save hers – she owed him that much, at least.

Lord Voldemort had never been a figure worthy of much. Horror, yes, but never admiration, never quiet contemplation, never anything but terror and hatred. Riddle inspired something altogether different. Something equally intense, if not more so; a healthy fear, edged with gratefulness and, more than that, an intoxicating sense of feeling so very alive, alive in a way she had not felt in a very long time, with each muscle and nerve burning within her, full of energy and zest.

"Oh?" His smooth baritone was quiet, dangerously so. And, now that she'd pinpointed it, recognized it, she was aware of the fire in her veins heating up and fizzling at that single word, that magnetic draw her Occlumency was so effective at blocking seeping back through her shields.

"I didn't think you would want a lie," Luna stated simply. At some point, she, too, had risen without even noticing. She wasn't sure which of them had moved towards the other first. They were close, now, close enough that she could almost hear the beating of a heart she hadn't known existed (and still doubted the existence of). "I don't trust you, Tom, because I know you well enough to know I shouldn't."

Something strange and almost uncertain, something that she'd never seen before, flashed in his emerald eyes so fleetingly that she wondered if she'd imagined it.

"I see."

She shook her head. Tangled blonde locks swung around pale, ethereal skin, a soft strand lightly brushing his collar with the movement. "Moglies and mist."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"You think you see, but you don't."

_How could he? _Compassion muttered irritably. _After all, you don't yourself_.

He trapped her so quickly. A single concise movement, and his hands were digging like iron bands into her arms, that crimson haze spreading over glowing green. For a moment, she thought he would shake her until her teeth rattled. It took an impossible amount of effort to prevent herself from trembling.

His lip curled. "Stop speaking in riddles."

"I'm not," she protested sincerely.

"You are." He paused, dark eyes still glittering with fury. "You know, I have _never _let someone who irritated me this much survive this long."

She should be terrified. Not so long ago, before that fateful visit to Hogsmeade, she would have been. Instead, her lips twitched in ill-concealed humor born of either nerves or hysteria.

"Should I feel honored?"

The twist to his mouth – just full enough to be enticing, not so much so that it appeared to be forever pouting or effeminate – faded; although the red didn't fully recede, his grip loosened enough that she could feel some of the blood rushing back into her palms.

"Only you, Luna."

He sounded almost fond. Utter amazement at Tom Riddle sounding almost fond was probably what did it. Mixed with the adrenaline and the headiness that was starting to spill into her with the wild magic infusing the air due to the holiday, it was probably the equivalent of a narcotic.

She laughed.

Her head tipped back, hair swinging in knotted disarray. The heat radiating from his body was apparent on the frigid October night, magnified a thousand-fold in the strange, prickling adrenaline that was sweeping through her. An impish smile appeared on her face as she finally welcomed the headiness of Samhain night. She hadn't felt this light, this pure, in a very long time; her inhibitions vanished further with each passing second.

Alone, in a field, all the other students far enough they were almost out of sight, with the Samhain-induced rush frothing in her veins, it was as if a strange force drew her towards the man who'd saved her life not so long ago. If she wanted to satisfy her curiosity…to save everyone…

_Golden opportunity_, Rationality justified. _You've unbalanced him. Who knows when you'll have such a chance again?_

"If I'm so special, dance with me," she whispered, before she could lose her nerve. It wasn't quite a command, but neither was it a request. Genuine shock flittered through his expression; usually, he concealed any signs of human weakness at all cost. She had surprised him.

She surprised herself.

He recovered quickly, pointing out sardonically, "There's no music, Faulkner."

"Just because you can't hear it doesn't mean it isn't there."

"Your propensity for believing in things that don't exist – "

Marveling at her own audacity, she slipped a finger against his lips.

It crept closer, the soft hum of wind that gradually became the reedy notes of a flute, and then a full orchestra. This piece of enchantment had been the trickiest part – to make the music sing only for those listened. Something flickered briefly across the planes of his face before he shook himself, cold calculation returning to its customary place.

"I don't _dance_."

"Oh," she said softly, secretly relishing the stiffness he was _for once _failing to hide, "I didn't realize that you can't – "

He moved with sudden, lethal grace. Long fingers grazed the small of her back before settling there. Somehow, even though there was still that persistent little voice telling her to get away at all costs, she felt…secure. Balanced, in a way she hadn't been for a very long time.

_It's only the Samhain magic_.

"Goading me towards your nefarious goals," he murmured as he captured her right hand in an almost-painful grip. "Perhaps you're a proper Slytherin after all."

She grinned. "It worked."

And they moved.

It was not a perfect waltz, not at first. Luna both preferred to count in four and twirl at impulse, which resulted in some unfortunate collisions. And Riddle, for all his pretensions, was _not _an experienced dancer, and _not _at ease; he was stiff and unyielding, the antithesis of her free-flowing movements. If not for the magic, tangibly surrounding each and every step they took, they would have likely yielded to the awkwardness. But that thick _something _remained.

She began to spin every three cycles.

He relaxed enough to let her.

She stopped treading on his feet.

His count expanded to twelve.

She finally met his eyes – and held them.

He gave her the faintest of smiles.

And neither of them noticed that, as the song wore on, they gravitated closer and closer to each other.

* * *

><p>AN: I'm so sorry. Really. This chapter took almost a year to come out. I don't really have a good excuse, other than some form of really intense writers block. I'm incredibly grateful for all the support - to everyone who reviewed, you guys are amazing. Actually, it was the constant reviews that made me come back to this story - I regained my interest.

Hope you enjoyed this update. Please **drop by with a review** :)

-Alle


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